


the shape of our memories

by bafflinghaze, hpwlwbb, icarusinflight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Brief mentions of PTSD, Depression, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Misunderstandings, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, brief mention of (past) torture, its not explicit but the effect that the was has taken it's toll on Hermione, some disordered eating behaviours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bafflinghaze/pseuds/bafflinghaze, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpwlwbb/pseuds/hpwlwbb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/pseuds/icarusinflight
Summary: “I don't have to justify my place here to you.” Millicent’s voice is like ice, and Hermione can't help herself from flinching, pulling back in her seat to put more distance between them. She's faced down dark wizards, but this feels different. Hermione feels her cheeks warm and thinks about trying to apologise, to take  back her words or say something to take away the sting of them, but before she can say anything Millicent snaps, “Why are you here?”After the war Hermione tries to make up for her wartime by working in the Department of Magical Accidents. She's not expecting to end up working at a desk opposite one Millicent Bulstrode, but she'll put up with whatever she has to, if it gives her a chance at getting her parents' memories back.





	the shape of our memories

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Author(icarusinflight):  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has helped me make this possible. I've gone into further detail in my endnote, however I wanted to do a quick shout out here to a few people.
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods, frnklymrshnkly and violetclarity. Thank you for running this, thank you for letting me be a part of it, and thank you for your patience with me. Part of me still can't believe I made it.
> 
> Thank you so much for my collaborating artists: bafflinghaze and nixhydr. You guys were both so patient with me, so supportive and encouraging. I don't think I ever could have completed this without your kind words. You both went above and beyond, and I am so damn thankful.
> 
> **Artists' Mediums/Notes:**  
> [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com) (tumblr) notes: A big thanks to the mods for organising this amazing fest! It's been a blast working with icarusinflight ❤️ and creating artwork with Millicent and Hermione ❤️❤️❤️  
> [ nixhydr](https://nixhydr.tumblr.com/) (tumblr)

###  **Day One, Week One**

Hermione’s first day as an intern in the Department of Magical Accidents starts with one piece of toast (abandoned), a cup of tea (forgotten) and a frantic spelled attempt at cleaning the cat hair from her clothes (in the rush she ends up catching Crookshanks in the spell as well). The toast ends up uneaten, she drinks the tea cold with a grimace, and Crookshanks ends up on top of her highest bookshelf, refusing to come down even after she tries to coax him with a crust off her amply buttered toast (which he really shouldn’t be allowed to eat, but she is making an exception).

“I didn’t mean it,” she tells him, but Crookshanks either doesn’t care about her intent, or doesn’t care for her offering — he has been known to carry a grudge after all — and turns his back on her.

“Right, well, this will be here for you when you decide to come down.” She’s long since passed the point of feeling any sort of embarrassment for talking to her cat. It’s just the two of them here, and if Hermione doesn’t speak to Crookshanks her voice may shrivel up and die. He’s a good listener at least — better than Ron ever was, and she’s never felt embarrassed about talking for too long with Crookshanks. They’ve been completing her pre-reading together, Hermione reading out loud as she learns about the history of the Department, spell reversal, and everything else she can get her hands on. Together, they’ve made their way through all the books, even the sections that hit a little too close to home, Crookshanks’ fur a welcome comfort when her voice starts to get wobbly.

She’d be absolutely lost without him.

Hermione places the plate with her leftover toast on the coffee table, and then adds a bowl with a splash of milk in it for good measure. Another thing that he probably shouldn’t have, Hermione’s read all the lists of _what not to feed your cat_ and she just hopes that his Kneazle half is more resilient than his cat half when it comes to constitutions.

She casts another _Scourgify_ , this time ensuring to keep well clear of Crookshanks. She’s just about to leave when she feels a familiar headbutt against the leg of her freshly cleaned and un-furred pantsuit.

“Oh love,” she says, crouching down to pat him, and then deciding to go all in, picking him up and cradling him to her chest, burying her face in his fur until he shoves his strangely corn-chip-smelling feet in her face. It’s calming, the edge of panic that was threatening to surface finally subsiding as she cuddles Crookshanks to her, regardless of the fact she’s undoing all her spellwork and probably putting creases in her shirt to boot.

She’s feeling much better when he does finally start to struggle, and Hermione places him down on the coffee table by her offerings, petting him from his head to his tail in long sweeps, just the way he likes it.

“Thank you.” She gives him one last long pet, and then she’s out the door, ready to face whatever will be thrown at her.

* * *

“Good morning,” the witch greets the room when they’re all gathered, everyone standing in a sort of circle. It’s not a large room, with not more than a dozen or so people standing around. They all seem happy at least, joking and talking when Hermione walked in, but as soon as the Minister for Magic walked in behind her it tapered off. She feels like she’s back in class again, standing up and trying to say her piece with everyone looking at her and just waiting for her to trip up, hoping she’ll make a fool of herself. She excels under those circumstances usually, but now it's too much, and she focuses on the witch speaking, blocking out everything else.

“As you might have already noticed, we have a few new faces. First of all, we have Ms Hermione Granger. She will be joining us for the year as a junior researcher, and we’re extremely lucky to have her. While this is a new role for the Department, for all intents and purposes she will be taking on the role of a trainee agent, so please treat her like any other trainee and join me in welcoming her to the team.”

A round of welcomes go around the room, and Hermione nods her appreciation, still avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“Next up, Ms Millicent Bulstrode.”

 

 

 

> Image Description: A drawing of Hermione and Millicent from mid-torso up. Hermione wears a blazer and white blouse. Her head is turned towards Millicent and she is frowning slightly. Millicent wears a blue shirt and black robe. She looks ahead, not noticing Hermione, her expression somber. Behind them are a few faint silhouettes. Art by [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com). Rebloggable tumblr art post available [here](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/post/186110233398/the-shape-of-our-memories-written).

Hermione whips her head around, and sure enough, one of the many faces she’s been ignoring belongs to none other than Millicent Bullstrode. Millicent herself seems to be employing Hermione’s own method of placing all her attention on the witch speaking, and Hermione realises she’s still talking and turns her attention back to her.

“Millicent will be joining us as a trainee agent. We are delighted to have her on board, and I am sure she’s going to be a real benefit to the team.” There’s a murmur of agreement from around the room, and the witch waits for noise to dissipate before continuing. “It’s nice to see us back at almost full strength again. Banks is still off after his mishap, but I’ve heard from him and he’s doing better. I’ve heard from Kemp and the little one is doing well, but she’s still got six months booked for her maternity leave, so it’ll be awhile before we see her face again. Regardless, this is the fullest we’ve had the room for a while. I know we’ve still got a larger case load with the backlog of cases, but we’ve been doing a good job of working through them, and I know we’ll get them done.”

Another murmur of agreement goes around the room.

“Alright. Back to your jobs, spells to reverse, people to save, you know the drill. Ms Granger and Ms Bulstrode, if you’ll wait a moment.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” Minister Shacklebolt says to Hermione, as the rest of the group move towards desks. “I’m sure you’ll do well, and Pezdek will see you right.” He turns towards Millicent. “Good Morning Millicent, I was most pleased to see that you decided to accept the offer. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition to the team.”

And with that he’s gone, walking out and leaving them to it.

“Ms Granger.” Pezdek sticks out her hand, and Hermione moves to take it, grimacing at the sweat on her palms. Pezdek shakes it with the ease of a woman used to performing the action; simple, efficient, without any of the excessive pressure Hermione has experienced from people in the past. It makes Hermione feel worse about her own handshake, which is probably floppy, weak, and worst of all _damp_. “I am Head Agent Pezdek, but Pezdek is fine unless you’ve got bad news. Welcome to the Department of Magical Accidents.”

“Thank you, it’s a pleasure to join the team, I can’t wait to learn more about what the Department does and how it works.”

“I bet you can’t. All things in good time though.” She gives a knowing smile that makes Hermione wonder just how much she _does_ know. The Minister said he would inform people on a need-to-know basis about why she was joining the Department, but did Pezdek need to know? She should have asked more questions about it at the time, but she was a little distracted. After she confessed everything she’d done during the war, she expected chains and Azkaban, and she was so relieved to be given an alternative, that she hadn’t questioned Shacklebolt further. She’d been so distracted that it was only later that she realised it was an opportunity too – that getting placed with the Department responsible for spell reversal might help her find the answers to her own spell problem – that it might help get her parents back. She has the sudden urge to tell Ron — _‘I was too nervous to ask questions! Can you believe it?’_ and she knows Ron would laugh along with her — except they don’t talk about these things anymore — they’re hardly talking at all, even when Harry is around.

Pezdek turns her attention to Millicent.

“And Ms Bulstrode, I was very pleased to see you accepted our offer, your application was among one of the best we’ve had — it’s not often people joining the Ministry apply directly for our department.”

Hermione can feel herself staring at Millicent but she can’t bring herself to stop. Millicent, for her part, seems to be doing her best to ignore Hermione, eyes locked on Pezdek instead, even as her cheeks turn pink.

“It was a privilege to receive the offer.”

“The Department is lucky to have you both. Please follow me, and I’ll show you to your desks. Two recruits at once is almost unprecedented, and it will certainly help us in these times, but we didn’t have space in the main area, so you’ll be a little removed from the rest of the team. Please don’t let that stop you from asking us if you have any questions.” She turns and motions for them to follow her as she walks off, and they both fall in behind her. “We’ve had a significant increase in cases following the war, and not all of them accidental. In some ways these cases can be easier, as there’s often less detective work involved in uncovering just how a spell has gone wrong, but in other cases it’s just as, if not more, difficult. You won’t be dealing with those cases yet of course, they’re for our most experienced agents. Most of your job will involve researching for the department. Along with the weekly team meeting we have fortnightly case studies where all available agents meet and discuss a selected project. These take place at the Brewers Institute _,_ and attendance is compulsory for trainees.”

Pezdek stops in front of a two desks, placed with chairs facing each other. The desks are mostly empty, save for a quill and inkwell, and Hermione is once again struck with how different things are compared to the Muggle world she grew up in. There is no computer, which Hermione should have anticipated, but for all that she knows the wizarding world doesn’t use them, she’s always thought of offices as having desks, and desks having computers, and there was a small part of her expecting to see them even here at the Ministry. She remembers going into work with her parents and curling up to sleep under the receptionist’s desk, or playing paint on the computer. It’s just one more thing that is so very different, a reminder of all she’s left behind. She shoves the thought away, turning her attention from the too-empty desks to the shelves filled with parchments behind them.

“As you’ll be utilising the archives quite frequently, we’ve placed you next to them. Most case files and records are available to you straight away, but some of the more… sensitive cases are locked away. Permission to access these will be granted on a case-by-case basis.”

Pezdek motions towards the desks. They look like it’s been a while since they’ve been used, a film of dust coating the surface.

“You can fight over the choice of desks,” says Pezdek. It’s a throwaway comment, nothing more, but Hermione blushes with shame at the memory of another time when they did fight, and for no better reason then, either. She can’t even remember how it all started really, but she remembers being surprised when Millicent had physically grabbed her, no magic involved at all. Hopefully it won’t come to that this time round.

Pezdek waves her hand and parchments appear on their desks. “These are the Department guidelines and operating procedures, get started reading those. I’d encourage you to discuss the guidelines between yourselves as you acquaint yourself with them. It’s often helpful to talk things out, especially when the terminology can be quite foreign, but if you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask myself, or any of the other agents if they’re available. When you’re done, come by my office and we can get you started on your next tasks.”

She gives another nod before taking off back the way they came.

“Right, maybe we can—” Hermione starts, but Millicent is already moving to a desk, placing her bag down on top of it, and Hermione bites down on a sigh before claiming the other desk. She doesn’t want to lean on the dusty desk, so she reaches into her bag to find her charmed cleaning cloth — a spell of her own design that cleans and polishes in one — and leans down to wipe the desk clean.

“ _Tergeo_ ,” she hears, looking up to see Millicent with her wand out and a clean desk.

Of course, a spell makes sense.

Hermione doesn’t need a spell though, she’s got her cloth. She wipes her cloth across the desk, moving the parchment, quill and inkwell to clean every inch of the surface. Her desk is cleaner anyway, and certainly shinier. She does her chair as well for good measure, marvelling at the shine of it all when she’s done. A little elbow grease never goes astray.

Pleased with her work, she takes her seat, scrolling open the parchment before her. She finds it difficult to focus though, the words blurring as questions run through her head. Millicent sitting across from her is making her nervous — even in their shared classes they never sat this close. She’s glad for the space of a desk between them, it’s something at least, but she can’t stop herself from shooting glances at Millicent, half expecting her to say or do something. _Constant_ _Vigilance_ and all that. Hermione barely knows Millicent really, but what she knows she doesn’t particularly like, or trust. She’s got every reason to be wary — Slytherins haven’t exactly proven themselves trustworthy.

“Alright Granger, out with it. I’ll not have you watching me all day like some sort of petty criminal. I’m not going to steal your inkwell.”

Hermione starts at being called out, and when she looks up at Millicent she’s got an impressive scowl on her face. Hermione wants to deny the inkwell thing at least, but she _was_ watching Millicent, so instead she asks one of the questions that’s been running round her head.

“Why are you here?”

Milicent’s glower darkens further. Every member of Slytherin seems to have that same ability of making one feel a little at risk from just a look, the kind that makes Hermione want to shrink down and disappear. She fights the urge to do so.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. I was obviously good enough for the Department. I've wanted to be in spell rehab my whole life, so you’ll have to just put up with me, Granger. ”

“You have?” Spell rehab isn't very Slytherin. It's more Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff even — hard toiling and all that. She never would have expected to see a Slytherin working here. “Why?” she asks, before she can think not to.

Millicent’s continues to glare, and Hermione doesn’t slide down her chair, but she _does_ grip her hands a little tighter on the armrests to try and anchor herself to the seat.

“I don't have to justify my place here to you.” Millicent’s voice is like ice, and Hermione can't help herself from flinching, pulling back in her seat to put more distance between them. She's faced down dark wizards, but this feels different. Hermione feels her cheeks warm and thinks about trying to apologise, to take  back her words or say something to take away the sting of them, but before she can say anything Millicent snaps, “Why are _you_ here?”

_Because I cursed my parents so they can't remember me, and I'm not sure anything I can do will make it better._

The silence is sharp, and when it’s dragged out long enough that it’s clear Hermione isn’t going to answer Millicent says, “Just you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

* * *

Her first week passes in a haze of readings, the words all blurring in front of her until they seem hardly like words anymore, all meaning lost. It feels like she's suddenly leapt straight into the deep end of the pool, and she’s kicking desperately and clinging to her kickboard for dear life. The readings are far and beyond anything she read over summer, or at Hogwarts, even including the advanced texts McGonagall gave her, and the extra books she’s been devouring for as long as she's been able to get her hands on them.

It’s hard, difficult, challenging, and she _loves_ it.

What she doesn't love is sitting opposite from Millicent.

The situation hasn’t improved since their first day. They barely exchange more than polite, if terse, greetings throughout the day, and while Hermione doesn’t exactly have a desire to _talk_ to Millicent, not talking to her somehow leaves Hermione feeling awful too. There’s a tension that sits beneath her skin, between the fraught silence and the knowledge that it’s at least partially her fault. She wants to fix it — would like to at least get to a place where they can be civil with each other. If only it were as simple as the _Reparo_ she used to do to Harry’s glasses. If only the spell could fix more than just the physical, there were so many things she’d use it on — but that’s not a rabbit hole she wants to go down really. There are too many dark thoughts down that path, thoughts that Hermione has placed in a box and buried way down deep where not even she can find them. She just wants one thing in her life to be a bit easier, wants to have the sort of work colleagues she always thought she’d have, people to laugh and chat with and talk about their pets; people to discuss all the things they’re working on. She doesn’t even want to speak around Millicent, and she misses discussing things out loud. Even Crookshanks is a better conversationalist than Millicent Bulstrode.

Luckily, she’s able to have lunch with Ron and Harry most days, and at least she can let it all out then.

“It’s just the worst,” she says, throwing herself down at the small table. “I tried to talk to her this morning about forced transformations, and she barely acknowledged me, then later I heard her talking to Toussant about just that! I just don’t know what to do about it, honestly.”

“Hmm,” Harry says, looking thoughtful at least, which is more than can be said for Ron who is instead shovelling food into his face, which she supposes is fair. It’s not the first time she’s brought this up, but she has _no idea_ how to resolve this issue. She doesn’t need to be friends with Millicent, but at the moment it feels like second year all over again, standing opposite each other and ready to duel — and going just about as well for both of them.

“Anyway,” she says with a sigh. “How is training going?”

Ron swallows his food and starts on about offensive spells and the various methods of how to defend, block, or deflect an attack, and Hermione listens along, wondering if any of the recipients of those sorts of spells would end up documented in a case file on her desk. More likely they’d end up at St Mungo’s, but maybe if they needed assistance the case might make its way to her department, perhaps if a spell went wrong in the rebound, or if the spells got crossed. She tries to eat her own food, but her stomach is still churning, the morning's interactions with Millicent sitting uneasy with her, and she can’t stomach even the thought of eating the food in her bowl. It’s a stodgy stew anyway, so she shoves it to the side, ignoring the look Harry shoots her. She picks up the bread roll instead and breaks it up into small pieces to nibble on. Better something than nothing, and Harry at least turns his attention back to his own plate, even if his expression still looks a little concerned.

“Feeling alright 'Mione?” Harry asks when Ron breaks his spiel to take another bite.

“Fine.”

“It’ll sort itself out I’m sure. No one can stay angry at you for long.”

Hermiione bites down the sigh and the retort she wants to make. Harry is significantly underestimating _Slytherins_. Easier not to disagree with him though, so she changes the subject.

“Drinks after work? My Department is doing a case study at the Brewers Institute after work tonight, we could meet there after?”

“Oh, I wanted to check that place out. We’ve got to get back, see you tonight?” Harry stands up, picking up his dish and sliding Ron’s empty on top.

Ron hangs back, making a show of wiping his hands as Harry takes the dishes back to the counter. It’s been stilted between them since the end of summer, their friendship on rocky ground after the break up, and it’s not that Hermione regrets it, not at all, but she misses the ease they had during those summer days, when they spent their time lying in bed together and distracting themselves from everything else in the world.

“Keep your chin up yeah 'Mione? I know it seems rough right now, but it’ll get better.” He leans in, a hand on her hair, before he drops a kiss there too. Hermione closes her eyes and savours the feeling of it — she misses this too, the easy touches they once shared. Since the breakup they’ve been keeping their distance, the once plentiful touches few and far between, and stilted when they come. There’s still something stiff about the way he touches, but it’s better, closer to before, and Hermione lets herself hope that maybe this means they’re getting better, that maybe the once open wound of their relationship finally starting to heal. The touch is gone before Hermione is ready for it to be, hand drawing back to the safety of Ron’s own body. “You’ll win her over, you did with us.”

She can only hope.

* * *

Brewers is half empty when they crowd in, and Pezdek directs them to a corner booth. Pezdek throws up an Auditory Vocal Shield and a Privacy Charm around the table once they have drinks. Hermione watches as Charks pulls something out of his bag. He taps it with his wand once and it unfolds like the Marauders map used to, unrolling and then moving to hover near the wall where everyone can see it. Its covered in information, photographs, notes, and even a moving diagram of the spell progression. It’s a thing of beauty.

Hermione listens as Charks discusses the details of the case, but keeps her eye on the board — the relevant section enlarges when it’s being discussed, and it’s incredibly helpful in demonstrating the case. Hermione’s enthralled and more than a little impressed. She can hardly look away, not until Charks is finished, and he packs it all up.

“Thank you, Charks, for an interesting insight into that case, and for sharing what you learnt from it," Pezdek says. "Reactionary self curses are always fascinating, and I’m sure we all learnt something new from that.” She motions at the scribing quill, and its movement ceases. “We’ll have notes made available to everyone next week, and if you have any additional queries, please direct them to Charks.” She nods at Charks once more, and he nods and grins in response. “And with that, we conclude tonight's case study, and all further talk of work is hereby forbidden.” Pezdek waves her wand this time, and the noise around them increases, the hum of the bar suddenly present. When Hermione looks around she sees that the pub has filled up with people during the time it took to discuss the case. There’s a queue at the bar now where it had been possible to walk straight up when they first walked in. “Stay around, have a drink or two if you have the time.”

Some people push away from the table, but Hermione waits as her colleagues move around her, considering her own options. A quick _Tempus_ reveals it to be just after five, and Hermione isn’t sure what time Harry and Ron are finishing. It shouldn’t be too much longer surely, although they have been known to run late on occasion. She’s listened to them talk about that, in a tone too happy to really be described as complaining — _‘bit tired today 'Mione, had to stay late, demands of Auror training and all that’_. Still, she doesn’t mind waiting, and there’s no point leaving the pub only to return later. This table is as good as any — better, even, than having to try and fight for another. Beside her Pezdek is already talking with another person — Hermione thinks it might be McClave, though she’s not sure. On the other side of the table Millicent is deep in conversation with Charks, and Hermione hears a few words here and there, before chastising herself for eavesdropping.

Everyone is already chatting away, and it almost feels like those early weeks of first year again, when she had felt so alone at Hogwarts, no friends and every attempt to make them ending up in rejection. She turns her attention to her wine instead of trying to interrupt anyone’s conversation, swirling it and watching the way the red liquid clings to her glass — the _legs_ she thinks it’s called, the one part of Fleur’s extensive teachings on wine she’s managed to hold onto. It’s a decent distraction from the conversations around her. Hermione could try to be social, but she can’t quite bring herself to make the effort, the sting of rejection sharp even after all these years. The week has been bringing back memories of Hogwarts, of days when most people wouldn't so much as talk to her unless they had to. It’s not that she’d expected to make more friends like Harry and Ron, but she had thought she might at least be on friendly terms with a few people, and after a week in the office, she’s almost certain that the only thing she’s got to show for herself is an impressive knowledge of the history of spell reparation, and a crick in her neck.

The wine tastes bitter when she takes another drink, and even that seems like a mistake now. She chose poorly, the first wine that had sounded nice, and it’s nothing like the wine she’d shared with Fleur and Ginny over the summer.

It’s just another thing she’s messed up. No matter how hard she tries, everything feels like it’s just coming out wrong.

Her stomach churns again. The wine tastes sour in her mouth, and she feels like she’s burning up inside. Maybe she should just leave. It wouldn’t be so out of place to do so. Other people have left, and they wouldn’t think it to be anything out of the ordinary. She could head home to Crookshanks, maybe pick up a curry on the way back and make herself tea. Crookshanks will be pleased to see her — he always is, and surely she deserves it after the week she’s had. The boys will be disappointed of course, but Hermione will send them a message, and more importantly, they’ll understand. They always understand.

“Hermione?”

She looks up to find both Charks and Millicent looking at her.

“What?”

Millicent’s eyes narrow at her for a moment.

“We were just talking about transformations gone wrong, I know you’ve had some experience with that?” Hermione feels her face flush red, the memory of her own attempt with Polyjuice Potion, the months she spent in the Hospital Wing. Only her teachers and Ron and Harry were allowed in, but she always feared people knew, that people laughed about her for her stupid mistake. The blood rushes in her ears, drowning out the noises, and Hermione’s hand grips the table hard enough that her knuckles ache. It takes a moment for her ears to register that Millicent is talking again. “You were one of the first people to see Peter Pettigrew after he spent twelve years in his Animagus form. What was he like after that?”

“Oh,” Hermione says a little dumbly. Relief floods through her, but it takes a moment for her to calm enough to change tracks. “Yes, I was. I guess he was a bit strange, after he got turned back.”

“Really?” Charks asks, his attention suddenly all on Hermione, and his voice betraying his curiosity. “Strange how? I’ve never heard of a person staying in their Animagus form so long. It’s a wonder he was able to change back.”

“He was forced to change back,” Hermione adds, and then when they keep watching her, she starts on the story of what happened.

* * *

“Thank you for sharing that,” Millicent’s voice interrupts her as she tries to decide what to order as her next drink. “It was an interesting story.”

Hermione tries not to jump, though she knows she’s not overly successful. The bar is loud and feels a little crowded, and it puts her more on edge, makes what would be a perfectly reasonable start of a conversation seem like a possible risk. She’s been getting better at it lately too. She turns, a little hesitant to face Millicent, even if they did just have a perfectly friendly conversation — probably their first ever friendly conversation, if she thinks about it. Her trepidation is for nothing though, because Millicent isn’t even looking at her, instead leaning over the bar to get the attention of the bartender. The attendant heads straight to Millicent, even though Hermione’s been waiting by the bar far longer. She hadn’t made up her mind what she was going to order of course — but still, it rubs her the wrong way.

“Thanks,” she replies, because she doesn’t know what else to say really, but it seems appropriate.

Millicent seems comfortable, moving with an ease that Hermione envies, leaning over the bar, and then leaning against it to look at Hermione. She tries not to feel like she’s being inspected. Harry and Ron still haven’t arrived, and the bar really is picking up now, making it difficult to relax, but even if she were there’s no way she’d be able to pull off the apparent calm Millicent is demonstrating. “Why did you—” _talk to me, get me involved, include me when you’ve never seemed to give a damn before?_

Hermione leaves the words unsaid.

The bar attendant comes over, sliding three drinks over, one of which Millicent passes to Hermione, the other two she takes in her own hands.

“Look,” Millicent says, turning to face her head on again, side leaning against the bar in a way which looks comfortable without seeming lazy. “We may have history, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s all it is. History. I think it’s time we left that all behind. We’re working together, and I’d like it to be amicable, if that’s alright with you.”

Hermione’s heart thuds in her chest.

“Yeah,” she says, when the silence drags on too long, and it’s obvious that Millicent is waiting for a response.

“Great then,” Millicent nods at her once more before turning away, disappearing into the crowd.

Hermione picks up her own glass, the same red wine she’d been drinking before based on the look of it. She contemplates the drink, staring into the glass and its deep red depths, and suddenly it’s all too much, and she can’t face another moment here. She places the wine down on the bar, sliding it towards the person beside her with a nod. She’s on her way out the door and Apparating before the door closes behind her.

* * *

When she wakes on Saturday she has a headache, and it feels like there’s a cloud of melancholy hanging over her.

There’s an owl waiting at her window for her, and when she checks it, it’s a message from Harry which manages to ride the line between understanding and worry. She sends back a reply agreeing to his offer of breakfast, but suggesting they catch up tomorrow instead of this morning. She just can’t fathom even thinking about the energy that would require, not when she’s struggling even replying to the owl. She feels a little guilty about it, but sometimes even Harry is too much effort for her. Today is definitely one of those days. He’d understand if she explained why she doesn’t want to catch up today, but then, she doesn’t want to worry him.

Owl on its way, she contemplates staying in bed. It would be nice, comfortable, and surely after all she’s done this week, this year, her whole bloody  _life,_ if she wants a lie-in she should be allowed to have it.

And yet, she still pulls herself out of bed, not bothering to take off her pjs before pulling her trackies right over the top of them. It’s something she’d definitely side-eye the boys for doing, but that’s the level she’s at this morning. Tea, toast and sitting sideways on the couch underneath the blanket her mum sent her to Hogwarts with her very first year. That year she was embarrassed of her blanket. Everyone else in Gryffindor had charmed blankets, some even had handed-down Gryffindor blankets from family members, and her own brightly-coloured Muggle blanket had seemed out of place then, too bright and too much, and Hermione hadn’t wanted to stand out there, like she always had in prep school.

Now, she’s ashamed of how she shunned the blanket, of her eleven year old foolery. The blankets one of her most treasured possessions now, handed down to her from her mum, and being wrapped up in it brings her a sense of _home_ that’s hard to find these days. One day she’ll tell her mum just how much she loves it.

“I’m going to get them back,” she tells Crookshanks, burying her hand in his fur. “I bet you can’t wait either. You’ll be all over Mum.” She can imagine it now. Crookshanks is almost aggressively affectionate sometimes, and Mum is one of the people he loves best, rubbing on her legs as soon as she’s through the door, and jumping on her lap the moment Mum takes a seat.

She just needs to get them back. Then everything will be okay.

There’s only the ongoing issue of the spells she’d cast, back in the days when a war was breaking out. She’s made no headway on them at all. She wasn't really thinking of the future when she cast it. Some of the future, yes, like the fact that her parents were in danger, that they were _all_ in danger. She thought so much about what could happen during the war, but she never thought about what might happen _when it was all over_. Now, she's not sure if that was a mistake, or if it was the belief that she wouldn't make it that affected the spell.

“But I did.” Crookshanks gives a mewl in response, ever ready to back her up. “I made it through.” She doesn’t tell Crookshanks that it feels like her life is even more of a mess than it was during the war, but she suspects he knows.

It’s just been a hard time, and not made easier for missing her family. A part of her thinks she’s been waiting, waiting for the next big thing to come along that she has to deal with. Only it’s been months now, and all she’s had to deal with is her life, slow and sad, and the pangs of grief, but that’s just part of what it means to be alive, the same as for anyone else.

She might not be coping so well on that front. Work is providng a welcome distraction from the emptiness that feels like is her life, all the spaces she can feel should be filled with her friends and her family. She knows they’re all doing their best, all dealing with their own demons, and Harry and Ron are _trying_ to involve her in things, she knows, but it’s just been so _hard._

They’ve all had their own losses, and it’s not fair to compare her loss to Ron’s, who lost his brother, or Harry, who’s lost _everyone_. She still has her parents, even if it doesn’t feel like it, really. She had them, and she lost them. They’re still alive, but they don’t remember her, and some days she thinks that’s so much worse, wonders if this is half of what Neville feels with his mum and dad.

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until the tears drop from her chin onto her hand and Crookshanks' fur.

“Christ.” She takes her hand off Crookshanks, using her sleeve to wipe at her face. It’s gross, but it’s a gross sort of day, and she’ll spell it or wash it later, one of the two.

“Enough of this,” she says to Crookshanks, or maybe just to herself. “Enough moping around, I need to bloody do something.”

Crookshanks mews, either agreeing or disagreeing, complaining about her general sappiness, or maybe just asking if she can get back to petting him again, she’ll never know. She scoops him off her lap, placing him back on top of the blanket on the couch,  and he glares at her for a moment before circling twice and rolling up into a tight ball, face almost hidden where he’s tucked it beneath his feet.

“To work,” she tells herself.

* * *

Because she didn't consider it at the time, she didn’t have the wherewithal to make notes or keep track of what she was doing. There was just _get it done, get them safe_ , and then get to safety herself. There was never a moment to think about what would happen in the future, not when she was too busy just trying to keep her and her boys alive, not when it was a constant worry of _when will they come for us?_  

Sometimes she dreamed of her parents, thinking of them off in Australia. Sometimes she worried — she chose Australia for its distance, for the fact that it was far away and difficult to get to, and even to get there by Portkey you needed at least three interchanges, but the worry was impossible to ignore, that even with all of her protections, someone might have found them. Sometimes she would imagine them off having a great time and doing amazing things. She hoped they went to the beaches, she’s seen pictures of the white sand and blue seas, and liked to imagine her parents relaxing on them. She hoped they remembered to pack sunscreen, because she didn’t want them to get burnt, but also because Australia leads the world in skin cancer, and she didn’t want her parents to come back with cancer. She looked into Australia, of course she did, but even with the skin cancer, sharks, and all the other wildlife that could kill them (she really does try not to think about the snakes) she still thought it was the best option, far away, and unlikely enough that no one would guess it, and hopefully no one who knew them would run into them.

But also, importantly, Hermione knew they always wanted to go to Australia.

It factored in, of course it did. She told herself so many things to justify her actions. It had always been something they wanted, there’d been talk of it, not outside of the three of them, but her mum suggesting that after she graduated they could all head out there, maybe spend six months, and Hermione could go it alone if she wanted, but could always come back to them if she ever needed.

Sometimes she feels guilty for how it didn't turn out like that.

On the good days she’d imagine them living out their dreams, seeing all the things they’d talked about like the Great Barrier Reef and the Big Banana. On bad days she couldn’t help but imagine all the things that could go wrong — like the highway serial killers Australia has, the sharks and all the wildlife just waiting to have a go at her parents. She had to stop herself from looking up the Australian fauna after she learnt that even platypuses were venomous. Nothing in Australia seemed to be cute without a serious risk of human injury. Except she couldn’t find any cases of someone being seriously injured by them, and even snake bites were rare and often easily treated, shark attacks even rarer, and she tried not to think about the jellyfish.

She tried to remind herself of the facts on a daily basis, and sometimes it helped, but the thoughts still came, worse-case scenarios running through her head. Some thoughts couldn’t be quieted — not even with facts.

It was such a relief when after the war she found them fine. It was a rush, and Hermione was so relieved with it. She hadn’t even hesitated to run towards them, ready to embrace them and just wanting her _parents_ again that she hadn’t even considered the fact that there was still the Memory Charm, that when Hermione felt so much for them they might not _remember her,_ even though that had been the whole point really, the fact that they couldn’t.

The realisation that they didn’t recognise her, and then when she realised she didn’t know how to remove the spell she cast, had been one of the worst moments in her life. It had bled over, she realises now, a cloud of sadness hanging over her that she’d been unable to lift, so pervasive that Hermione hadn’t even realised it was there until it started to lift, until she started her work with the department, and found a purpose, and better than that, found _hope_ again. Now Hermione feels like maybe it is possible that a solution could be out there.

Maybe she won’t be alone forever.

She still needs to find out exactly what there is to fix.

The problem is she doesn’t quite remember, the mix of emotion and time.

But she needs to try.

One of the things she’s read in her time is that eyewitness accounts are some of the least reliable evidence available. The memory is flawed, can be corrupted, and it’s like some sort of sick twist of irony now that she needs to rely on her own memories, that her memories, free from spell altercation are still so unreliable, that even she can’t be sure of what is real and what’s not.

But trying to remember what happened is still a start, and she needs to do it before she starts doing more research. That’s another thing she learnt, how easy it is to bias a memory, and the last thing she needs is to start reading into cases and have her own memories be lost or corrupted. Her memories are one of the only things she has now.

She has so many memories of them. When Hermione thinks of her mum, she thinks of the smells of spices, the scent of bread as soon as she came home. They were the things that she got teased about sometimes at school, of the smell, and of her weird lunches, but Hermione remembers it clearly. The house always smelled like something was cooking, or just cooked, and there was always music on.

In one of the boxes she brought round from the house, she knows there’s a stereo, and her mums CDs, and that’s her first step, digging it out, giving it a dust off, and then getting to work on setting it up. There’s more plugs than she remembered, cords for speakers and power, and one that’s even aerial. Though she isn’t planning on using the radio, she still plugs that one in, and fixes it to the wall with a Sticking Spell before covering it with a Concealment Charm. She adds another shelf for the bookshelf, then unpacks the CDs onto it, ordering them like her mum used to, grouping them by genre, then artist, then album.

When she’s done, she takes a moment to admire her work, sitting back on her heels in front of the shelf. It looks good, and there’s something about it which makes her feel a little better already. Her living room is pretty spare, and the books she keeps here are research books more than anything, books she wants to read for information, or books she thinks she might need to reference, but the stereo and CDs, they’re just… for fun.

She picks out a David Bowie album, putting it on to play as she leans back against the couch, staring at the wall above the fireplace.

She bought a notebook especially for this, even bought a new pen to keep with it. It’s less the new stationary that matters, but she plans to keep the book on her always, and the pen, so whenever inspiration strikes she can write in it, she’s got everything in one place.

She has the only photo of the three of them that remains tucked inside the front cover of the notebook.

Now though, she needs to make an attempt to write everything down, to catalogue everything she remembers from that day.

She drinks the rest of her tea — lukewarm and she grimaces a little as she finishes it off — ignoring the look Crookshanks sends her as she does, and then she sits down to try and recall everything she can.

###  **Week Two**

The second week passes in a similar blur, and by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, Hermione wonders if there’s any way to self-inflict blindness.

Well, there is — many of them actually. She’s definitely read about them, somewhere during her spell research. She’s been making notes as she goes and she has the notes _somewhere,_ but at the moment it’s an unsatisfying mess of parchment, notes, and ink smears, and the mess that always comes when she’s researching a subject. Only usually she’s researching for an essay, or for any one of their ‘tasks-to-save-the-world’ and there is an end in sight, but she’s been reading for two weeks straight, has a workspace that’s more parchment scraps than it is desk, and as far as she can tell, there _is_ no end in sight. Her eyes feel dry and crusty, and more than once she’s noticed herself daydreaming away, imagining a world where she’s no longer reading through dry accounts of spell investigations and reversals, and what might happen if you mix a bezoar with a Sobering Tonic (bad things, very bad things).

Millicent’s desk is even more of a mess, and Hermione can’t work out if that’s better or worse. On one hand she has to look at the desk every day, and even after living with _Ron,_ the absolute disaster that is Millicent’s desk grates. On the other hand, it does make her feel a little better about the state her own desk.

“Hello ladies,” Simpson says, walking up to their shared desk.

“Millicent is fine.” Millicent doesn’t look up from her own book, and Simpson seems a little struck by her words, looking lost.

“Hi,” Hermione says, when the silence has dragged out a little too long, and neither one seem ready to break it. “Did you want something?”

So far they’ve yet to be given an _actual_ case to investigate, just specific readings, or general subjects and sent on their own way. They’re always questioned on them after, or on one occasion, asked to prepare a report on the subject — together. They’re doing more things together now, and it’s better, even if it’s not quite _easy_.

“Oh yes,” Simpson says, smile a little wary on his face. “I was wondering if either of you could tell me about the side-effects of Apparating close to the Muggle electricity sources.” He sounds the word out slowly, lengthening the vowels like one might if they’re not familiar with the term — which, Hermione assumes, he might not be.

So it’s one of the first, then. Hermione knows this one, and she doesn’t hesitate before replying.

“You can get pulled in by the electricity lines,” Hermione says. There’d been an extensive amount of writing on the subject, for the most part obviously written by people who both had little knowledge, but a great deal of fear, about electricity. There seemed to have been a great number of mishaps when electricity was introduced in England, and initially it was thought that it had been a new version of a witch hunt, that Muggles were once again chasing down witches. Fortunately, somewhere along the line this idea had been overturned, but there’s still a lot of fear.

“Wizards have been known to get lost in them for years,” Millicent adds from across the desk. And she’s not reading from her book anymore, instead she has a piece of parchment in front of her. Hermione has her own parchment somewhere, but she doesn’t have the foggiest where it is. _How on earth did Millicent find hers in that mess?_ “In the case of Clemens, ‘72, he was stuck travelling the lines for five years, at which time he reappeared, for unknown reasons. It can also cause feedback shock for the recipients.”

“It’s not every time though,” Hermione adds, because she hadn’t remembered that _particular_ case, but she does remember this. “You can counter it with grounding yourself in the spell, and there are cases of people reporting feeling the tug, and needing to mentally ground and fight the tug. It’s not a given just because you happen to Apparate by an electricity line.”

“This, and the imperative to maintain the Statute of Secrecy is one of the reasons why we have designated Apparition spots now,” Millicent adds, finally looking up from her paper. “So that we can keep people away from areas of danger.”

Hermione hadn’t known that. It’s definitely not been in any information she’s read, and even Simpson looks a little surprised at that.

“Thank you ladies.” Millicent turns her head back to her page, and Hermione can see the scowl on her face. Simpson seems to realise what he’s said, because he adds, “I mean, thank you Millicent and Hermione. That was a very informative recap on both the information and history of electricity-based Apparition accidents. Great job on the readings.”

Hermione ducks her own head, feeling her cheeks flush at the praise. It brings back that feeling of success, like when she looked for information back at Hogwarts and finally found the missing puzzle piece. Even then Hermione remembered how important it was, how much Ron’s " _You’re brilliant Hermione,"_ really meant to her. It makes the week's readings feel a little more worthwhile. She’s been learning, and it’s nice to recapture that — not everything has to be about saving the country from genocide.

“As you are well aware, we don’t have a case study this week. However, everyone in the office will be heading down to the Brewers Institute around five, care to join us? It would be nice to get to know you both better. Standard non-case study rules apply — no work-talk at the table.”

Hermione turns the idea over in her head, she’s made plans to meet up with Ron and Harry after work, and although they haven't specified a place, she kind of assumed that it would be at Brewers. Last week wasn't exactly a success, and though  she did have some good times, she’s still not sure. She felt out of place, and a little uncomfortable, and the only person who actually helped with that was —

“I’ll be there,” Millicent says across from her desk.

It’s what tips her over, which is a ridiculous thought really. A month ago Hermione probably would have said no due to that fact alone, but Millicent is obviously making the effort with her, and Hermione wants to do the same.

“Sounds nice,” Hermione says as well, even if she can already feel the nerves making her stomach start to twist already. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” She can do this. She lied her way through Gringott’s bank, a pint with colleagues is nothing.

* * *

The pub is a bit more crowded this time when they arrive. It’s later than last week, which is probably the reason for it, but Hermione tries to ignore the way the hum of noise from the pub feels like it gets under her skin, like a midge buzzing around the room. Simpson takes them to the same booth, pushing the ‘reserved’ sign to the wall as they slide in.

“Drinks?” Someone asks, a voice asks at her shoulder out of nowhere, and Hermione jumps from it, almost knocking over the glass of water by her elbow, making it tip and wobble, the water splashing over the edge and onto the table before she can stop it by grabbing it with both hands.

“Shit,” she says, almost quiet enough to be under her breath but not quite. Beside her Millicent raises an eyebrow. Hermione ignores it, looking around the table for something to clean the mess, but there’s nothing, no napkins or papers, and Hermione wonders how bad an idea it would be to use her cardigan sleeve to mop up the water.

“ _Tergeo_ ,” Millicent says, with a sideway glance, tapping her wand on the table. The water is gone in an instant, leaving the table dry, and even a little cleaner than it was before.

“What can I get you?”

“Oh,” Hermione says, dumbly, still a little off balance from the shock. Her heart is pounding, and her stomach churns. She can’t imagine eating or drinking yet, but she doesn’t want to be the only one without a drink. “A house red,” she says, after too long, and she doesn’t miss the half eye roll she gets for it, probably already judging Hermione’s drink, and Hermione feels her face flush, feels a little out of place. The pad and quill tucks itself back into the bartender’s apron, just below a name badge — Deanne apparently — and she walks away without another word.

She’s beginning to wonder if that’s going to be a constant, feeling out of place wherever she goes.

* * *

Ron and Harry turn up earlier this time. Hermione notices them ordering drinks at the bar even through the growing crowd. She contemplates excusing herself from the table to make her way over to them. She could probably just leave and not come back, a few people have already have, so it’s not like she’ll be the first one. It seems hard though, Millicent is sitting next to Hermione, and getting out would mean having to ask her to move, or step over her. Millicent is engaged in conversation with MacKenna opposite them and Hermione doesn’t want to interrupt it just to move people about — and besides, she likes where she’s sitting.

In the end, Ron and Harry save her the trouble, appearing at the table with their drinks.

“Hey ‘Mione,” Ron says, effectively interrupting the conversation at the table. Something about the potential for televisions to get the wireless treatment; Hermione was paying a minimal amount of attention at best.

“We just wanted to stop by and say hi,” Harry says, after everyone has mumbled hello. No one seems to give Harry a second look, which is a pleasant change, so much better than the days of people tripping over themselves and Ron and Hermione, just to get Harry’s attention. “We’re going to try and find a table, join us after?”

“Oh nonsense,” MacKenna says, picking up her drink and draining the last of it in one go. “We’re just about to head off. You can have this one, it’s a nightmare trying to get a table after hours. Everyone and their dog pours in here after they get off at the Ministry. I’m sure there’s an Expansion Charm on the building, but it’s still no match for the Ministry staffers. We can carry on this riveting conversation another time.”

She stands up, and beside her Giles does the same, saying their goodbyes and leaving only Hermione and Millicent sitting at the table.

“Enjoy yourselves!” Giles says with a wave, and the duo leave, melting into the crowd as effectively as a ghost through the walls at Hogwarts. If only Hermione could handle the crowd of people so easily.

Ron grimaces down at the table, and Hermione feels Millicent stiffen, can even see her fingers going tight around her own glass.

“Oh,” Harry says, “that’s very kind of you. As long as you don’t mind?” It’s said openly even if there’s only one person that question can be directed at.

“No trouble by me,” Millicent replies, her words slower and more pronounced. It’s a subtle change, but Hermione is sure it belies a tension underneath the words. “I probably won’t stay much longer, I’ve got friends coming by soon.”

“They could join too, if you want,” Hermione surprises herself by saying. She can see Ron grimace again out of the corner of her eye, but she ignores him, attention focused only on Millicent.

Millicent’s mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, and if they weren’t seated so close, if all of her attention weren’t on Millicent, and she hadn’t been spending the last week learning all of Millicent’s tells, Hermione wouldn’t notice it, she’s sure. It’s probably also the alcohol making her just a smidge easier to read; Millicent is damn near unreadable when she tries, probably pure-blood aristocrat training or some such thing. Hermione understands the feeling though, and she’s not sure why she pushes, only that Millicent tried to include _her_ last week, to make her feel welcome, and she knows they aren’t friends, but Hermione wants to return the favour.

“Well. I do need to finish my drink,” Millicent says, picking her tall glass up and taking a pull from the straw. Hermione lets out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Ron still looks like he’s eaten something unpleasant, and Harry looks a little confused, but they slip into the bench opposite, and Hermione is grateful.

* * *

Millicent’s friends turn out to be Zabini, Malfoy, and Goyle. Zabini looks over the table, one immaculately manicured eyebrow raised in question, and Goyle has a look of fear on his face, but Malfoy doesn’t hesitate before sliding in next to Millicent, motioning for Goyle to follow him, which he does after only a moment’s pause. Zabini gives a shrug before sitting down too, taking a seat opposite them next to Ron. The addition of Malfoy and Goyle press Hermione into the corner, Millicent’s thigh pressing into her own. She’d picked the corner because she didn’t want to have to sit by the opening, wanted to be as far away as she could from the people who might be walking past. There’s still a part of her which is always on alert, and the constant passing of people is too much for her some days, but now she’s effectively trapped, sandwiched into the wall by three other people, not even friends.

Only, it doesn’t feel like being trapped. The feeling is there, in the back of her head, but it’s more an acknowledgement of the feeling, and Hermione is surprised to find that once she _does_ acknowledge it, it doesn’t bother her. Once she relaxes she finds that she is actually enjoying herself. The Slytherin’s make for a good conversationalists, and it is actually fun — something she never would have expected. They talk about a number of things, from sports to the state of England's Magical Creatures, but the conversation never touches school, or the history they’ve shared. It’s probably for the best.

“Finish your drink, Draco,” Millicent says, interrupting the conversation which has been going on, a mixture of Quidditch and Quidditch-related injuries — a safe topic for all. “Pansy’s getting off soon.”

“She could join us too,” Harry blurts.

The table goes silent.

Millicent raises an eyebrow.

“I just mean,” Harry says, eyes darting from Millicent, to Malfoy, and then Hermione. He shrugs. “If she wanted to. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t like, I wouldn’t have it out with her or anything.”

“You wouldn’t have it out with her,” Millicent says, the words slow and sure, and very definitely ice cold.

“Not like, I don’t mean it like that.” Harry runs his hand through his hair, as he always does when he gets flustered, when he needs time to think about what he’s going to say — he’s getting better at doing that at least. “I just thought she might want to join. I didn’t think… it would be a bit crap if she didn’t join because of me.”

“Potter of course she’s not going to want to sit at a table with you,” Malfoy says, voice making it very clear he thinks Potter is an idiot. It sounds more like the Malfoy of old, and Hermione sits up straighter, sees Ron do the same. She should have known this was a terrible idea. It’s been nothing short of a miracle that they’ve been able to continue as civily as they have so far. “Pansy’s not going to come sit down and have a pint with the person she publicly announced should be traded to the Dark Lord.”

Harry shrugs. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I turned myself over to Voldemort in the end, anyway. Seems a bit silly to hold a grudge when we both had the same idea.”

The table is still, and it feels like an eerie calm, until Zabini breaks the silence with a bark of laughter.

It’s just like the crack of thunder that breaks the still, and laughter rains down around them.

“Anyway,” Harry says, with a smile, a genuine one, and Hermione feels chuffed to see it. “If she wanted to in the future, maybe she could join us.”

“She doesn’t come out too often,” Millicent says, as she pushes at Malfoy's shoulder. He finishes his drink, and shoots her a look, but moves dutifully, and with that, Millicent makes her own way out, leaving Hermione feeling cold without their legs pressed close together. “But we’ll pass the message on.”

* * *

Crookshanks wakes her up with his insistent kneading on her stomach.

She dutifully extends her hand to pat his head, and he lays down, head resting on his paws, and staring her down in an almost creepy fashion.

“You’re such a menace,” she says as she gives him chin scritches. She doesn’t really mean it, not when some days the fact that she has Crookshanks to cuddle is the only thing she looks forward to.

It’s sure not the empty flat and the heating that she can never get to work right. She was told it was set up for Heating Charms when she moved in, but she’s not been able to get them to work properly once. They always overheat the flat until it feels like a hot summer's day, leaving Hermione sweating like she’s been out in the sun all day. Instead she uses the blanket, cuddling up beneath it, and if she’s lucky Crookshanks will grace her with his warmth too. She grabs the blanket off the bed when she gets up, wrapping it around her shoulders like a shawl.

First stop is to make tea. Peppermint this morning with a dash of sugar like her mum used to add for her, warming her hands around the mug, before heading to the living room.

She looks through her parents' musical collection, trying to find something to put on. She wants something nice to play in the background, something pleasant but not too distracting. In the end she chooses Simon and Garfunkel. When the sounds of the electronic notes come through, she smiles at the memory of her mum singing the songs to her in the living room and them dancing around together.

The fireplace has been bare since she moved in, much like the rest of the living room — the whole flat really, but in this case bare is good. It gives her an empty space to start her board, somewhere she’ll see everyday. There’s not much for the board yet, but Hermione puts a picture of her parents right in the middle. She writes Memory Charm, Confundus Charm, Disillusionment Charm, and _false memories_ , all on different pieces of paper, and places them just above the fireplace, right at the bottom. Then for good measure she writes ‘Australia’ on another page, and places that as high up as she can reach. She decides against using a spell to stick it even higher. For good measure, she grabs another page, writes GET THEM BACK in all capitals and sticks that to the poster board too.

“It’s a start,” she says, taking it all in.

She listens as one song tapers off and the next begins, filling the room with music once again. She takes a seat on the ground, leaning against the front of the couch as she looks up at the wall, reading the words she’s just written over again.

“I’m trying,” she tells the smiling photo of her parents.

She takes another sip of her tea, gone a little cold now, but it still tastes fine, aromatic and sweet on her tongue as she considers the wall before her. She needs to work out the aspects of the spell she used, so she summons her charmed bag and her notebook. She turns to the page after where she wrote down the course of events last week, and starts making a list of the things she might have used, all the things she never thought to note down, and wasn’t really paying attention to in the moment.

It’s lunchtime before she breaks, but she has four more pages in her notebook when she does.

“Memory Charm, Confundus Charm, Disillusionment Charm, and _false memories_ ,” she says aloud.

It’s more than she had last week.

 

 

 

> Image Description: A gif drawing of Hermione from the waist up in her sitting room. She has a blanket around her shoulders and reads her notebook. Crookshanks sleeps on her lap. Behind her is a board with a picture of her parents in the center, surrounded by other notes which are connected with red string. Hermione blinks and Crookshank’s ear twitches. Art by [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com). Rebloggable tumblr art post available [here](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/post/186110233398/the-shape-of-our-memories-written).

###  **Week 3**

“You’ll be doing the research for the case study this week,” Pezdek informs them on Monday morning.

Hermione's pulse picks up a bit, just from the thought of getting to do research for an _actual case._ Her cheeks pinch with the smile she can’t quite hold back. It’s not really appropriate to be excited about whatever spell mishap they’re going to be investigating — but she is. Millicent doesn’t look much better, nonchalance abandoned in the face of their first case, eyes wide and sitting up even straighter in her chair, not that Hermione would have thought that was possible.

“What’s the case?” Millicent asks. Her voice is pitched up a notch like it does when she’s got the answer to a question — and Hermione wouldn’t have recognised that before, but she does now.

“You’ll see,” Pezdek says, waving her hand. Two files appear on their desks, Millicent’s ruffling the scraps of parchment which lay there. Hermione packs her own desk up on Fridays but she knows it won't be long before it’s also covered in parchment — especially now that they have a _case_. Well technically it’s not their case, but it’s the closest thing they’ve had to one, and Hermione wants to know it already, hand on top of the file, and fingers itching to fling it open and find out what it is.

Pezdek has only just turned her back when Millicent throws the file open, and Hermione rushes to follow.

Their first case.

* * *

“I am thoroughly sick of reading about face rot,” Hermione says, throwing her head back to knock against the filing shelves and closing her tired eyes. “Who knew there were so many causes of facial rot?”

Millicent doesn’t respond. It’s not overly surprising, and Hermione supposes it was _really_ a rhetorical question. But they’ve been speaking more these days, keeping up a reasonable discussion about the research case, and sometimes even non-work related items, and Hermione was kind of expecting a response.

“I did.”

The answer takes a moment to filter through her mind, too brain-rotted from looking at all the words, and diagrams, and oh God the _pictures_ , and it takes Hermione a moment before it sinks through. When it does, Hermione’s eyes fly open, jerking her attention to Millicent, who's leaning against the opposite shelf and for all intents and appearances still reading the book on her lap.

“You did,” Hermione repeats. “What — why did you know about facial rot?” The muscle in Millicent’s jaw ticks, the same one that usually means Hermione’s annoyed her in some way. “You don’t have to say,” she adds rapidly, in case she’s overstepped a boundary in some way.

The silence drags out long enough that Hermione is sure that’s it, that Millicent isn’t going to give her an answer. She can feel her face growing hot from embarrassment, and she’s contemplating which book, parchment, or file she can use to smother herself with. Maybe she can stage a filing room collapse, a cascading set of dominoes like in a movie she remembers watching as a child. Anything to get out of this situation.

“My grandmother was a Healer in the Global Wizarding War,” Millicent says. She’s not looking at Hermione, instead focused on the parchment in front of her. “She was told not to treat Half-bloods and Muggle-borns during the war, and when she didn’t listen, they used my grandfather to make an example, and they’d test new spells on him, and then leave her to clean up after them. I guess it was meant to make her stop, or maybe it was just meant to keep her busy so she didn’t have time to deal with them.” The words tumble out quickly, almost rushed in a way that Hermione’s never heard Millicent speak before.

“Oh my—”

“He never really recovered from that. My grandmother made sure he was healed physically of course, but there were still scars, and he experienced pain from it until the day he died. It takes a toll on a person.”

Hermione doesn’t know what to say. She wants to lean forward and give Millicent a hug, wants to do something, anything, to help take away the pain in her voice.

“My grandmother never stopped, even with all that. She kept going during the war, and she kept going after the war, she never gave up, and she even fought during the war, then after that she worked as a Healer on the battlefield. She used to tell me stories, and Mother hated my hearing them, but Granny said they were important for me to know, and I used to love them as a child, I used to love them, they were like a superhero story just for me, my very own Grandma, even if I didn’t really _get_ all of the bits as a child.

“She told me never to give up fighting, and sometimes I might have fucked up what I was fighting for, but I always knew in the end what was right and what was wrong.” Millicent waves around at the room. “And I’ve always known I wanted to do this because of her, always wanted to be able to fix things that are wrong, to help people.”

Millicent finally makes eye contact with her, and Hermione can see the tears in her eyes. When she speaks there’s a wobble there. Hermione’s never heard her voice like that, and it shoots straight through her, gripping like a hand in her chest, and Hermione’s eyes prick at it too. “So now you know,” she says, “that’s why I always wanted to do this.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, and finally she can’t help it anymore, she shoves her book to the ground, wincing a bit at the noise — this is effectively still a library and that’s still a _book_ she just mistreated, but just once she allows it — and wraps her arms around Millicent’s shoulders.

For a moment, Millicent is stiff under her arms, and Hermione thinks she’s messed up — she _should_ have asked, she doesn’t even _know_ Millicent, _shit_ — but then Millicent wraps her arms around Hermione, and she rests her head on Hermione’s shoulder. It’s not an amazing hug — Millicent’s book is still on her lap, and Hermione is awkwardly leaning over her. Her knees hurt from the floor, and her back hurts from hunching over, but she doesn’t let that deter her, just puts up with it, arms as tight as she can handle from the angle, until Millicent raises her head and drops her arms.

 

 

 

> Image Description: A drawing of Hermione and Millicent in the records room. Millicent sits on the floor against a shelf, a book open in her lap. There is a tear on her cheek. Hermione kneels in front of Millicent, leaning forward to hug her. Their arms are around each other’s backs as they embrace. Art by [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com). Rebloggable tumblr art post available [here](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/post/186110233398/the-shape-of-our-memories-written).

Hermione leans back on her heels, but that doesn’t help much with the awkwardness, so she shuffles closer to the filing shelf Millicent is leaning against, dropping to sit next to her, and bumping her leg into Millicent’s, and when she doesn’t pull away, she leaves it there. She wants to put an arm around Millicent, sling it over her shoulder and pull her in tight like she’d do for Luna or Ginny were they in this situation, but she’s not sure if she’s allowed, and she can’t bring herself to ask.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, “for what happened to your grandparents. And for the question. I didn’t mean to bring that up, I just didn’t—” _think?_ “—expect that. And for hugging you too — I should have asked before I did that.”

“It’s fine,” Millicent says, voice thick with emotion. She sounds raw, split open, and Hermione knows that feeling. “I think I needed that.”

“Still,” Hermione says, because it’s important, “next time I’ll ask.”

“Sure,” Millicent agrees. “Next time.”

There’s a moment, then, when Hermione considers telling Millicent why she’s here. It feels like she should, after everything Millicent shared with her, but she also just… doesn’t want to. It’s the secret she’s carried so long, not even Ron and Harry know the full story.

But it’s more than that. For all that Hermione _does_ want to tell the story — she’s afraid. Afraid of what Millicent will think if she finds out what Hermione did — that she charmed her own parents and sent them away with nothing more than a set of spells and false memories. Millicent’s grandmother treated people the whole war long, and Millicent’s grandfather faced _torture_ , and Millicent came here because she wants to make a difference, and Hermione is here because _she messed up_.

So she keeps her mouth shut.

* * *

The week passes in a blur of research that reminds Hermione of all her favourite things. She does actually love researching, and it brings back her passion for it, reading the materials, making notes, the satisfaction of finding the exact piece of information she needs. When Friday arrives, they present the information together, standing up to speak about the history of spell-based facial rot — they leave out the potions-based facial rot, but get asked about it when they’re finished, and Millicent answers the question, her hand bumping ever so briefly against Hermione’s as she does so, but her voice doesn’t break once. Hermione is so very proud of her, of both of them, and even with the sadness of it, she’s still grinning by the end of it — they are making a difference as well, and it helps, learning ways to help people who suffer, people like Millicent’s grandfather.

She’s still wearing the smile when she lines up to order a drink, right up until the moment when she’s looking at the menu, facing the problem of trying to choose a drink once again. Someone bumps into her side, but even that’s not so bad, not the usual sort of panic that starts to pull at her when people push into her space. She lets out a small squeak at it all the same, an automatic reaction more than anything, one that she hopes gets lost in the noise of the pub, although when she turns to see Millicent and the arch of her eyebrow, she knows she's out of luck. Millicent just gives her a once over, and Hermione returns her attention to the menu, looking it over and wishing once again that she’d actually paid attention to the wine she drank with Fleur. Maybe she can ask for another wine date — that’s probably not likely though, and probably impolite to ask, considering Fleur’s off alcohol for the next nine months.

“What are you drinking tonight?”

Hermione looks down at the menu — pages of wines and beers, and they may as well be written in Gobbledegook for all she knows. She doesn’t want another house wine, but she can’t think of anything else. Maybe she should just call it a night.

“Well?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Hermione confesses. “Could you recommend a wine?” Millicent is one of those posh types, she’s probably been drinking wine around a twelve seater dining table since she was twelve.

“What do you like then?”

“I don't know what I like.” The words pop out before she can say anything and they jar Hermione, rattling around her head like a broken record. _I don’t know what I like_. It sounds like a confession of something more, leaves her wondering _what does she like then?_

“Well.” Millicent raises an eyebrow at her, but it doesn’t feel judgemental, more _pointed_ . “You should probably work that out. In the meantime, I wouldn't recommend wasting your time on things you don’t enjoy.” It feels like _more_ again, and Hermione searches Millicent’s face for some clue, but she's not sure what she’s actually looking for, and she comes up blank. “Life's not worth that.”

Millicent takes another look at the list. “I quite enjoy this one,” she points at a wine on the list, “for a night out such as this. But you don't have to drink if you don't want to. Plenty of people don't. Smith only drinks Butterbeer. There's no reason you have to, and nobody expects it of you.”

_But they expect so many other things,_ Hermione thinks.

“I'll leave you to it then,” Millicent says, as her drink arrives. “I hope you make up your mind.”

“Me too,” Hermione says, low enough that she hopes no one but herself catches it.

* * *

The problem with rushing a spell is that sometimes you don’t think about spell interactions.

The spell trace she took from her parents sits in front of her, a semi-transparent representation of the charms she cast, the colours intertwining and locking together so intimately that Hermione can barely tell where one ends and the next begins. They've become almost attached, woven into each other's fibres in a way she never intended, but happened nonetheless.

She should have known better really. It’s not even something unique to spells. Hermione remembers her parents telling her something similar about Muggle pharmaceuticals. They’d had their fair share of issues as dentists because of drug interactions, and Hermione remembers her Mum taking her aside when she couldn’t have been more than fourteen to talk to her about it.

“Now you’re probably going to be offered drugs soon,” her Mum had said, ignoring Hermione’s resulting cry of " _Muuuum,"_ and the fact she’d buried her head into her bed and tried to pull the pillow over her ears to block her Mum's voice out. “And if you do take them, just be safe. Don’t ever let anyone ever force you to take anything, and if you’re ever worried about something, don’t do it. Go with your gut.”

“Muuuuum,” she’d cried again, before adding with the surety that only comes from being young, “I wouldn’t.”

“You might,” her Mum had insisted. “And that’s okay. But stay safe. If you’re worried, call an ambulance, or whatever the wizarding equivalent is. And never lie about these things. We’d rather you get in a little bit of trouble and be alive. And always tell your doctor.” Her Mum had leant down to hug her body, covering Hermione’s back with her torso. “Even tell your dentist.”

She placed a kiss against Hermione’s hair, and Hermione tried to shrug her off, feeling embarrassed and wanting to sink through the floor. It felt like her face was on fire. Her Mum sat back up and started running her hands through Hermione’s hair instead.

“No good doctor will ever judge you for this,” she said. “They should only ever have your best interests at heart, and sometimes things can go wrong if they don’t know what’s been in your body.

“If anyone ever makes you feel bad for this, you bring them to me, and I will deal with them. Your Mum can be fierce.”

“I know.”

“We only care about you, my little otter.”

Hermione blinks back tears at the memory. They only ever wanted the best for her, whether that was in school, her health, even in dating, as evidenced by the excitement they’d shown when Hermione had confessed her crush on Ron. Even if it meant trying to learn an entirely new culture, and shipping their daughter off across the country, they'd always been supportive, always looked out for her.

And this is how she repays them. By abandoning them in a different country with a poorly made spell and ignoring advice they've given her.

She really should have known better. It’s half the problem really.

She stares at the copy she took of the spell trace she cast on her parents, looking at the interlocking spells. It reminds her of a Gordian knot, the way the four spells are woven together, and she’s not sure where she’d even begin if she could.

There's no sword that can cut through this knot. Not if she wants her parents back.

It’s an added difficulty she doesn't need. As if an _Obliviate_ hadn’t have been difficult enough. She should have built a back door to the spell, a fail-safe, but it’s another could-of, should-of, didn’t.

And now Hermione’s paying the consequences.

Now _her parents_ are paying the consequences.

“For Christ’s sake,” she says, dropping her head back against the couch. Crookshanks bats at her hair, and Hermione lets him, trying not to cry over the mess in front of her. Her Mum would yell at her if she heard Hermione swear, and Hermione wants that so bad, would pay any price if it meant getting a hug from her parents again.

She just wants them back.

###  **Week Four**

“Great work on the case study,” Pezdek says Monday morning after Hermione has arrived. She’s not even taken her coat off, but Millicent is already seated at her desk, reading one parchment while a quill is already making notes on another. Millicent is always in when Hermione arrives — another mystery Hermione is determined to solve. Hermione’s tried to see just how early Millicent comes in, but she’s never been able to make it in before her. Even when Hermione grabs a breakfast-to-go from the caf on the way and brings her tea in a mug instead of drinking it at home, she’s never made it in first. Millicent never leaves early either, always still reading when Hermione leaves. Hermione knows she does the same, claiming to be doing research — and she is, definitely, but if it all happens to be focused on the types of spells she cast on her parents, no one’s complained yet.

“I thought it might be time to give you another case,” Pezdek says. Hermione’s head jerks up, sees Millicent do the same, her quill ceasing its movement across the parchment. Pezdek glances between them, half a smile on her face. “It’s a cold case. Don’t get your hopes up, it’s been unsolved for six years. The poor sod is stuck in a loop. They can’t remember, but they can’t make new memories either. They get by, but still…” Pezdek trails off, and she seems lost for a moment, face falling and eyes focused off on a space past both of their desks. “Every now and then I like to have new eyes look over an old case. It’s probably a bit early for you both, it’s quite unusual to be giving you _actual_ cases this early on, but considering the progress you’ve both made I thought I’d give you something to look over. You’ll have to research this one around your other work, don’t let this get in the way of the rest of your duties.” She places a file each on their desks, a sad look on her face. “Good luck.”

Hermione grabs the file, dragging it in front of her, and Millicent does the same. Hermione opens the file, and a familiar face greats her, smiling and waving cheerily, if a little vacantly.

Gilderoy Lockhart. Memory lost due to a suspected _Obliviate_ misfire.

“Good luck indeed,” Millicent says.

* * *

“I think this is a wild goose chase.”

“What?” Hermione was zoning out, the words all a jumble in front of her. She’s read these files before. She tracked down everything she could find that was even vaguely memory or Memory Charm related after her first week here. They all say the same thing. There’s no cure for a Memory Charm. Reading the files again hasn't changed that.

“I think this is a wild goose chase,” Millicent says again, the words filtering through Hermione’s brain this time round. “There’s nothing here.” She places the parchment down and knocks her head back against the shelf, rolling her shoulders, and Hermione echoes the movement, feeling the crack in her shoulders and her neck. “There’s not a single case of recovering memories after a Memory Charm. For all we know it’s not possible — for all we know the memories are truly gone. The spell is called _Obliviate_ after all.”

The words cut straight through Hermione. She’s been thinking them for months, but hearing them out loud makes them seem real. It means she has to face them, accept that maybe there is no way to fix a Memory Charm. Maybe there's no way to fix what she's done. Memory Charms are a different sort of magic, and they have a permanency not always seen in other charms. If a damn lock can be undone with spell, why can’t she undo the lock she put on her parents memory?

It’s not fair, all the arbitrary rules of magic. Why must this one thing be absolute?

Except.

She has heard of a case where somebody's memories were recovered. Her thinks back to the aftermath of Voldemort's return at the end of fourth year, when Harry had told her and Hermione all the horrible things that had happened in that graveyard, including the fate of Bertha Jorkins. With everything else going on at the time, Hermione hadn't spent much time focusing on a witch she'd never even met, but she never forgot it. Given all her research into Memory Charms of late, it's no surprise that what happened to Bertha has been on Hermione's mind, though she usually tries not to think about it. Torture generally isn't considered a valid option in memory recovery, but they’re researching this together, and if there’s any time to mention it, it’s now.

"There's one," she says.

"What?" Millicent pushes the parchments off her lap, scrambling towards Hermione. Almost too close, and if it were anyone else it would send Hermione scrambling back to put distance between them, but it doesn’t feel oppressive like Hermione would have thought.

Still, she can’t keep looking at Millicent, so she breaks eye contact, looking down at the parchment in her hands instead. The case study of someone else who got stuck in a memory loop, another life ruined without possibility of recovery. She’s read far too many of these lately.

She takes a deep breath and steadies herself. “I know of one time when someone’s lost memories were recovered.” Her voice sounds calm, deceptively so, and Hermione is proud of it. She didn’t even know Bertha, it shouldn’t be such a such an issue, only it was one of the things that used to haunt her on the nights she couldn’t get to sleep, thoughts of Death Eaters finding her family and what they might do. It still haunts her dreams sometimes, even now, after all of it.

A hand settles on her knee, fingers wrapping around her calf and giving a little squeeze. Hermione watches the thumb rub across her knee, the motion soothing to watch and even more soothing to feel.

Hermione closes her eyes, focusing only on the touch of Millicent's hand. It feels easier with her eyes closed, and that was something her mum used to always say too. Whenever Hermione got too worked up they’d go and sit in her parents bedroom with the lights turned off, and her mum would wrap an arm around Hermione and tuck her under her chin. Everything felt a little bit better in the dark, her mum's hands a reminder that she cared.

It’s not the same, but it still helps.

“There was this one case,” Hermione starts. Her voice wavers this time, and Millicent squeezes her knee again, to comfort or reassure, Hermione’s not sure which, but it feels better, feels good. “I heard about it from Harry. There was a witch who had a Memory Charm placed on her, but then—” she searches for the words, for a way to get the point across without making Hermione give voice to all the things she doesn’t want to say. Except that there really isn’t any way to dress this up, no way to make the ugly action sound anything but. “She was tortured,” Hermione says eventually. “And it broke through the Memory Charm that had been placed on her.”

“What happened to her?” Millicent asks, her voice pitched low, obviously trying to be calming, even if Hermione can hear the thread of hurt in there too. Millicent, who knows only too well the aftermath of torture, who is surely just as upset by it as Hermione feels, but is still trying to comfort Hermione anyway.

Hermione thinks her heart might just burst.

“She died,” Hermione says then corrects herself, “They murdered her.”

Millicent’s hand digs in tight, a sharp flash of pain that shoots up Hermione’s leg. Millicent’s hand loosens before Hermione can even gasp, but a trace of the pain remains, like an echo.

Hermione can’t take it anymore, and she slides her hand up, seeking Millicent. Millicent turns her palm up, letting Hermione lace their fingers together and squeeze. She opens her eyes to look at their interlaced hands before looking up at Millicent.

Her eyes are shining, as Hermione is sure hers are too, but there’s something more, something that could be anger, but doesn’t seem quite right. A fierceness, and Hermione is looking straight at it, but she knows it's not directed at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, truthfully. “It’s not much help.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Millicent says, and her voice is firm now. “It’s a well documented fact that people have lost memories after being tortured, but I’ve never heard of it going the other way.

“It must do something,” Millicent continues, “somehow affects the brain in the same way as the Memory Charm works. We just don’t know how.”

Hermione considers her words. She’s heard of it going the other way too — even seen the evidence of it, that time in St. Mungo's. She’s never thought it might have anything to do with a charm — it’s just… something that happens. A result of the attack on the brain. Nothing like a Memory Charm.

Except — what is a Memory Charm if not an assault on the brain? Maybe one less painful, but an attack all the same.

She tries to force the thought down, like the rolling of her stomach that comes along with it.

“It’s a start, Hermione,” Millicent says, squeezing her hand and dragging her from her thoughts. “There’s got to be a reason why that happened, a reason why they have a similar effect.”

Millicent squeezes her hand again, looking into Hermione’s eyes. “We might be able to figure this out. We could help people,” she says with conviction, and in that moment, Hermione believes her. Everything she’s learnt about Millicent since starting here has led her to believe that if anyone has a shot at solving this puzzle, it's the two of them.

“Yes,” Hermione croaks out. Her voice is close to breaking again, but Millicent doesn’t call her on it, and Hermione is so grateful.

For the first time in a long time, she feels hope.

It’s not until later that Hermione realises it’s also the first time Millicent has called her by her first name.

* * *

Hermione tells Millicent all she can about poor unfortunate Bertha Jorkins — not that she knew much anyway, just what she’d learnt from Harry. It hadn’t been a topic that had come up often, and Hermione dreads Millicent asking her to find out more, relieved when Millicent doesn’t. Her quill makes notes on the parchment, continuing on even after Hermione’s finished speaking, words that Hermione can’t quite make out due to the combination of Hermione’s angle and Millicent’s surprisingly awful handwriting. They get called away before Hermione can ask her about it though, another request for information, this one for a case of a mysterious Black Salve causing untreatable burns and scars, and their cold case has to be put aside while they work on the more pressing issue.

Hermione’s only a little frustrated by it, but she tells herself she’s waited this long, she can wait a little longer.

* * *

The Black Salve case ends up bigger than any of them could have expected — a suspected malicious attack rather than a case of misadventure. Pezdek brings the Aurors in when they start to suspect foul play, and what started as a simple research project turns into an interdepartmental investigation. They’re both offered places on the team — practically unheard off for trainee agents — and Hermione doesn’t hesitate to say yes, while Millicent turns it down saying, “I’m happy to be involved and to keep researching if required, but I don’t need to be on the team.”

Hermione suspects there might be more at play there if the look on Millicent’s face is anything to go by. Black Salve has also been used on faces, so it could be related to her grandfather, but she also seems eager to leave the office whenever the Aurors are around. Hermione has her suspicions, but she doesn’t get a chance to question Millicent before she’s whisked off to join the task force.

It does mean she gets to see more of Ron and Harry, and Hermione looks forward to that, sitting around the table in the meeting room like they used to sit around one in the library. Hermione ends up working with a Potions Master and Healer on possible remedies, while Ron and Harry work on the investigation side. Hermione loves it, finds the work fascinating, but when she finds something noteworthy in the parchments, she raises her head to mention it and — and realises the person she wants to tell isn’t there.

In just a few short weeks she’s come to enjoy Millicent’s presence, to look forward to it, there’s no one Hermione wants to talk to more right now than Millicent. She misses her.

She _misses_ Millicent.

Hermione misses Millicent even more as the week goes on. She goes straight to the task force room in the morning, spending her days researching and working on the case with the team. It’s an experience Hermione enjoys, and she ends up working with the investigation team even more, included in their discussions when they notice her listening in, which Hermione finds even more interesting. The project board they have puts her own little board at home to shame, filled with information from every team, and every hint and clue they’ve found, and Hermione endeavours to work harder on her own — it’s been only a few days and they have so much information to show — Hermione’s had weeks with next to no progress.

It’s demanding work though, with early starts (although not that early for Hermione) and late finishes. It’s urgent enough that they all do the work without any complaint — the only thing missing from the board are the pictures of the victims, and Hermione’s relieved. She doesn’t want to look at those for any longer than she has to.

* * *

When Thursday comes, and she hasn’t seen Millicent since joining the task force on Tuesday, Hermione takes matters into her own hands. She makes sure to get up even earlier than usual, setting her alarm for a truly offensive time and earning herself a grumpy stare from Crookshanks when it goes off. She gives him a splash of milk in apology and three rushed pats which probably only annoy him further, and then darts out the door.

When she makes it to the office, she’s pleased to see Millicent at her desk, quill in her hand for once as she scribbles away. Hermione walks up as silently as she can, peering over Millicent’s shoulder at the parchment. It’s still ilegible, her writing is exactly the same whether done by spell or by hand, but Hermione does feel a flash of shame for thinking of it as scribbling. Hermione’s used to Harry and Ron’s penmanship, and among them she has the best writing, but Millicent’s looks elegant, like calligraphy, like it was meant for writing in greeting cards or graduation certificates. There’s a somewhat soothing rhythm to it, to the patterns and loops of her quill and the scratch of nib against parchment, and Hermione loses herself in it.

“Granger,” Millicent says, shocking her from her thoughts and making Hermione jump. She’s glad she didn’t make herself tea before coming in — she doesn’t think Millicent would take kindly to Hermione splashing it all over her.

Which, right, there is a reason she didn’t make tea in the morning.

“I thought we could grab tea before I had to head to the task force room,” Hermione says. “I figured we could share what we’ve been up to.” _While we’ve been apart_ , Hermione doesn’t add. It feels too much, too close to an admission that Hermione can’t quite bring herself to speak.

Millicent looks her over, and Hermione feels like Millicent is trying to read her. Part of Hermione wants her to, wants Millicent to see straight through her. _Say yes_ , she thinks as loudly as she can, _I’ve missed you_. They’re thoughts she’s only just coming to terms with herself, and she can’t bring herself to say them out loud.

“Alright,” Millicent says eventually, standing up. Her own cup is suddenly in her hand, appearing from somewhere Hermione’s never been able to work out. It’s always there when she needs it, and gone when she’s not drinking it. There are so many things Hermione doesn’t know about Millicent.

She wants to know them all.

The tea room is small, hardly space for two. It can be a bit of an issue come lunch, but this early in the morning they have it to themselves. Hermione knows she saw someone at a desk — probably McClave, if she had to take a guess. The main office is far enough removed though that she can pretend they’re alone as she fills the kettle and lights the Heating Charm for it, thinking longingly of her own kettle at home. Someone really should at least make a charm that won’t make the kettle boil dry if they can’t have the luxury of an electric kettle.

Millicent places her cup on the countertop and turns around to lean her back against the bench. The size of the tea room means they’re almost touching, and usually if she has to share the space with someone she squeezes herself into the wall, trying to make herself seem smaller and not brush against the other occupants, but Hermione doesn’t feel the need right now. It’s just another amazing feat that Millicent has managed, somehow moving from colleague to friend without Hermione even realising.

_We are friends now,_ she thinks, and she doesn’t know how she didn’t realise it before.

The kettle starts to whistle, and Hermione busies herself with making tea, using it to distract from the thoughts running around in her head. She cancels the charm with a flick of her wand, placing tea bags in cups, Hermione’s with cats on it — a gift from Ginny for her birthday — and Millicent’s a fine china cup. She pours the water in, and then — because in all this time she’s never thought to ask Millicent how she takes her tea — slides Millicent's cup over to her.

The silence drags on as they stand there watching the tea bags steep.

“How’s the task force?” Millicent asks, finally breaking the quiet.

“Enjoyable. I’m learning a lot. The investigation's unit is interesting. I think you would have really enjoyed working on it.” _Why didn’t you want to?_

“Hmmm.” Millicent turns around to take her tea, rotating the cup first clockwise, then anti-clockwise, and Hermione watches as the water swirls in the cup, almost like a potion in a cauldron.

“How’s your work been coming along this week?” Hermione asks.

“Good.”

It’s not usually so awkward, and Hermione flounders for something, _anything_ , to say.

“Have you had any time to look at the Lockhart case?” she asks.

“Not enough.” Millicent scowls. “I’ve been having some thoughts on it though. I still think there’s hope.”

“I’d like to work on it.” Hermione blows on her tea. “I know time's been short though.” Hermione chews on her lip, looking at her tea, white with two sugars, sweet like her mum used to have it, not like the black tea her father always favoured.

An idea comes to her, and Hermione bites her lip harder, knowing she’ll regret it later when her lip's left tender.

“Maybe,” she says, keeping her eyes locked on her cup and trying to keep her voice level. “If you’re not busy, maybe we could meet up this weekend to discuss it?”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Millicent’s head jerks up. Hermione waits, blowing out a breath over her tea and trying not to panic.

“It might be nice,” Hermione adds, “to see each other outside of work.”

She holds her breath, waiting for Millicent’s answer. She looks into Millicent’s dark brown eyes, trying to let her own convey all the things she wants to say. Mostly _please_ , and _be my friend_ , and _say yes, please, won’t you say yes?_

“Alright,” Millicent says, “How about coffee at the Cheeky Swallow?”

“Sounds great.”

Hermione resists celebrating — at least until she escapes the department. Then she lets out a sigh of relief, and lets the smile grace her face.

* * *

The excitement is pooling in her stomach as she gets ready. She’s tried on three different shirts and jumpers, searching for the perfect match. It’s just that Millicent always looks good, and Hermione wants to look good for their coffee date, too. She settles on the teal jumper with a white button-up underneath it, the collar poking out.

Hermione’s stomach is full of butterflies as she looks herself over in the mirror. She looks fine, better than fine, better than she usually looks if she's going out for tea with the boys or Ginny and Luna. _Cute_ , she thinks, giving her mirror self a little smile.

It doesn’t help the butterflies, fluttering with equal parts excitement and apprehension. _It’s just coffee,_ she reminds herself. It's not like she hasn’t gone out for a coffee date before.

Just coffee and hanging out.

She leaves her clothes on the bed — that’s a future Hermione problem — and grabs her bag. She shoves in her notebook, even though it’s mostly just notes about her parents, and she won’t be sharing those with Millicent. They might talk about things today that are helpful for her investigation, and she wants to keep all that information in one place. She can always make copies if she needs to take the notes into work for the Lockheart case.

She finds Crookshanks sleeping in the kitchen window, and he definitely had to climb on the kitchen bench to get up there she notes with a scowl, but she gives him a goodbye pat anyway. He’ll probably still be asleep when she gets back, unlikely to move unless he thinks he can catch the sun better in a different spot. But he gives a chirping purr under her hand, rolling over a little under her hand, and Hermione gives him another pat on his offered stomach.

“Be back in a bit,” she tells him. “Take care of the place while I’m gone.”

* * *

Hermione arrives ten minutes early for their meeting at the Cheeky Swallow. She’s hoping to arrive first so she has time to find a table a table and relax a little before Millicent gets there.

When she arrives at the cafe, she spots Millicent straight away through the glass front. She’s already reserved a table, sitting in the corner towards the back, and she has papers laid out in front of her along with a mug and an empty plate — it looks like she’s been there a while. Hermione takes a moment to just observe. It’s not often she gets to, and Millicent looks comfortable there, bent over her papers and shuffling them aside. Even from outside Hermione can see she has too many papers, covering the whole table, even her tea is on top of them — a usual faux pas for Millicent. Usually the mess would perturb Hermione, but with Millicent she finds it endearing. Millicent has a way of spreading out, taking up all the space available, and Hermione can’t find it in herself to mind.

The door opening as someone exits shocks Hermione, and she shakes herself from her reverie. She feels a little better now, butterflies still present but not as bothersome. It’s just Millicent, and the feeling settles a little inside her as she walks up to the table.

Millicent looks up, giving Hermione a smile, and Hermione feels a smile grace her own face just as brightly.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Hermione looks over the table, taking in the cup (almost empty), the plate (only crumbs remaining) and the papers (all over the place). It’s a decent approximation of the mess Millicent always has on her desk, and Hermione is impressed both with her ability to spread out, and the fact that Millicent dares to do it in the first place — in _public_.

“I arrived early,” Millicent explains, a light flush passing over her cheeks. “I thought I’d have breakfast and save us a table.”

Hermione nods. “Have you been looking over the case the whole time?”

Millicent’s flush turns even deeper, and she picks up her cup to drink, even though Hermione can see there’s only dregs left.

“I haven’t had much time this week,” Millicent explains. “I managed to find some things which might be helpful, but I haven't had time to read them yet, so I came a bit early so I could get started on them.”

Hermione wonders how many of them she’s spent her own days reading, if there’s been any crossover, if Millicent's found anything between the pages that Hermione hasn't seen herself.

“I can’t wait to see what you’ve found,” Hermione says. “I’m just going to grab myself a coffee, do you want anything? A tea?” Millicent likes hers with milk, she remembers, and half a sugar.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Millicent reaches for her bag, rifling through it for something. “I can pay for it, but I don’t want to leave these papers unattended.” Millicent shoves her hand at Hermione, and Hermione can see the coin shining in the light.

“Oh don’t be silly,” Hermione says. “It’s just a drink, I’ll get it. What do you want?”

“Hot chocolate,” she says, a slight flush on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Hermione says. There’s something endearing about that, the flush of her cheeks and the way Millicent seems a little embarrassed to ask.

When she’s ordered and paid, Hermione returns to the table, taking the seat opposite, and pulling out her notebook and a pen.

“So,” she says with a glance over the mess in front of her, “what have you got?”

* * *

Hermione comes home from the coffee shop feeling happier than she’s felt in recent memory. She gives herself a hug, a wrap of her arms around her body, before hanging up her cloak on the hook. She heads straight to the stereo, squatting in front of the record collection with her weight in her toes as she searches for something to put on. Today she feels like Fleetwood Mac and the dulcet tones of Stevie Nicks. She waits for the introduction to _Second Hand News_ to start up before she goes to stand in front of her project board.

It’s starting to look better, and she knows she should put some of the stuff she learnt today on the board while it’s still fresh, but she’s also in a good mood, feeling happy and like she wants to hang onto the feeling she’s got. She looks at the picture of her parents instead, the way they’re pulling in together. Hermione couldn’t have found a picture that represented them better, and when she gets them back the first things she’s going to do is hug them and never let them go.

“I’m getting there.” Hermione reaches out to touch the picture. It’s not a wizarding photograph, so they don’t wave at her like they would if it was. They never took one, and that’s something she’ll change as soon as she gets them back. She'll take them into Diagon Alley and show them the sights and maybe even take them to the Ministry, let them see where she works. Perhaps she'll introduce them to Millicent. She knows they’ll want to meet her, meet the person Hermione has become friends with, and Hermione is sure they’ll think she’s great — how could they not?

This is the closest she’s ever come. Sure, they haven’t _actually_ come up with anything yet, but she feels like there’s a hope, a chance. If she can break the Memory Charm she set on her parents, then she knows everything will be alright. She knows the false memories will fold to her parents real memories — she just _knows_ it — and the Confundus Charm should have faded by now. She’s so close she can taste it.

She runs her finger against the board once more before turning away from it. Crookshanks is sitting on the arm of her couch, shooting her impressively unimpressed glares for a cat, but Hermione doesn’t feel like sitting yet. She’s feeling something underneath her skin, something like hope, but something else as well, something she can’t really put a finger on. She’s almost bouncing out of her skin, and it’s not just from discussing the case with Millicent, it’s more.

She had _such_ a good time, and yes they talked over the case, but there was something else there, something more than two colleagues hanging out. Hermione had fun, and she wants to do it again, wants to go out with Millicent without the excuse of work and a cold case hanging over them. It’s the first real desire to be social she’s felt since after the war, and it feels huge. She hugs herself again as she jumps up and down in her living room like an actual loon.

In her mind all she can see is Millicent, all she can picture is the way she runs her hand through her hair when she’s trying to think, the flush on her cheeks that she blamed on the hot chocolate she ordered. Millicent confessed it was her favourite, even better than tea, and Hermione wants to take her out for a dozen more hot chocolates, maybe even take her out to places in Muggle London, away from wizarding magic, to see the magic of London itself. Maybe she can even take her to the Museum; she thinks Millicent would love seeing the history of it all, and they could probably spend days there. Hermione thinks she would happily do it with Millicent, even though she’s been there herself more times than she can remember.

“I’m going to do that,” she tells Crookshanks. Crookshanks, for his part, seems to care not at all, and shoots her an unimpressed look — he’s spent seven years working on that one, and there is no one else in the world who is as unimpressed by Hermione as he is.

Maybe on Monday she can invite Millicent to come out with her on the weekend. She’s already making plans for the two of them when she remembers Ginny’s birthday party, and she feels her stomach drop at the realisation that she probably won’t have time. Ginny’s party is meant to be a big one, and Hermione knows it’s more than just a birthday, really. Ginny doesn’t even care for parties, and Hermione knows if it were up to her she’d be just as happy with a picnic, or nothing at all. But when Molly had brought it up at lunch a few weeks ago, they’d all shared a look, and Hermione knows that even if Ginny doesn’t care for it, she understands why Molly needs to have this, why their whole family needs this. It’s going to be the first party at the Burrow since Bill and Fleur's wedding just before the war, and Molly’s planned for it to be even bigger than that, now that it doesn’t have to be held half in secret. Everyone who’s even partially related will be there — Hermione knows from helping with the invites.

She even wrote the invite to herself, laughing with Ginny over the silliness of it; of course she was coming, there was no way she wouldn’t. But Molly had insisted she write the invite out to ‘Hermione Jean Granger, plus one’ and then placed it in the basket intended for the owls. Less than a week later it had been back in her hands, and now it’s stuck to the fridge. Hermione’s looking forward to the party, definitely, but she still feels a little sad that she can’t go through with her plan to have another outing with Millicent.

_Unless._

Hermione runs to the fridge, her socked toes sliding on tiled floor as she rushes to the kitchen. _Hermione Jean Granger and guest are invited to Ginevra Molly Weasley’s birthday, to be held at the Burrow. Celebrations commencing at 5pm and continuing till late._

The RSVP date has passed, but Hermione doesn’t think it will matter. She’s due to go round tomorrow, a combination of family (and some not family) dinner and preparation for the party, and Hermione will ask Molly and Ginny then. Ron’s bringing Lavender, it only seems fair that Hermione can bring her own plus one — even if only a platonic one. Ron and Harry might need a little convincing, but she also knows they were happy (well, maybe not happy, but willing) to have a drink with Millicent — and even Malfoy and Goyle! — in the pub that time, so she thinks she can bring them round.

She gives a little squeal of joy at the prospect, and runs back to the living room, scooping Crookshanks up to a hug, dancing him around the living room as the sounds of _Call Me Al_ play through the room. She can’t wait.

###  **Week Five**

The butterflies seem to have taken up permanent residence in Hermione’s stomach.

Hermione’s not sure the last time she _didn’t_ have them. It’s been a whirlwind of a week, and she’s hardly had the chance to breathe. She feels like she’s been running up stairs the whole week, leading her to this exact moment.

Millicent is sitting at her desk, because of course she is; Hermione had been expecting exactly that when she stopped at the cafe two doors down from the Leaky Cauldron and ordered two hot chocolates.

“Good morning,” she says, placing one cup down in front of Millicent. She avoids the parchment Millicent is reading, but there’s no spare desk available, so Hermione has to place the cup down on what she hopes isn’t an important piece of paper, half covered in Millicent’s scrawling letters that Hermione can hardly make out.

“Careful,” Millicent admonishes, pulling the parchment she's reading away from the cup — not that it was touching, mind — and then picking up the cup. Hermione takes a seat at her desk, pulling out the pink and yellow pineapple glass coaster Luna had given her and placing the cup on it. She watches as Millicent takes a sip, and Hermione sees the moment she realises what it is. She hides her smile in her cup.

“So why are you trying to ruin my system with your hot chocolate bribes, Granger?”

“It’s not a bribe,” Hermione says. It’s good hot chocolate, the perfect temperature with sweet chocolate, not too bitter. It’s one of the top five places Hermione has got hot chocolate from.

Millicent raises an eyebrow at her, and there’s no one Hermione has met who can pull off skepticism quite like Millicent, except maybe Professor McGonagall, and she’s had years to perfect it.

“So you’re saying that you didn’t bring me a hot chocolate because you want something from me?”

“I did not bring you a hot chocolate because I want something from you,” Hermione parrots back. It’s childish, something Ron would do probably, but Hermione feels like she’s won. She doesn’t want something _from her_. She wants to do something _with her._ It’s different. “I brought you a hot chocolate because I thought you might like one, and because it gave me an excuse to buy myself one.” It’s mostly true. Hermione did buy herself one too, so she thinks that might work.

Millicent is still looking at her very unimpressed, but she does take a drink from the cup, and Hermione is watching close enough that she sees the way her eyes flutter shut as she drinks, even from the distance. Her cheeks flush a little brighter, and Hermione can even see the smile on Millicent’s face that she tries to suppress. Hermione’s paid enough attention to know the difference now, and if you know her, Millicent’s not that great an actor.

“I did want to ask,” Hermione starts, and Millicent raises an eyebrow again, but she doesn’t say anything. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”

Millicent looks at her suspiciously.

“Only there’s a party this weekend. It’s for Ginny’s birthday — I’m sure you remember Ginny Weasley from school — but it’s going to be quite a big party. Molly’s hired out a tent, even bigger than the ones she got for last year's wedding.” Hermione can tell she’s rambling a little, but Millicent is only watching her, not showing any sign of, well, anything really. Hermione may as well be telling her the weather, or that she stepped in a puddle on the way in. It makes her feel nervous, like maybe this is a mistake. Millicent hasn’t shown any sign that she wants to hang out with Hermione around her friends, and one night at the pub doesn’t exactly friends make. Still, she’s come too far to turn back now, and she grabs hold of every ounce of Gryffindor courage she has and continues on. “There’s lots of people going, from all over, and I thought you might like to go. With me.”

“You want me to go with you?” Millicent pronounces the words slowly, each syllable accentuated, pushing her over the edge to sounding almost painfully posh. It makes Hermione want to squirm, but she doesn’t think it’s something she’s doing to make _Hermione_ feel uncomfortable. Hermione can see that her shoulders have come up around her ears, and her fingers are tense where she grips her cup.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to go with you,” Hermione answers simply. It’s the only answer she has, really. If she had a better one she’d give it.

Millicent seems to think it over, and she takes another sip of her drink, but her shoulders don’t relax in the least.

“Do you think that’s wise? Me, at a party for the Weasleys?” Millicent looks down at her cup, her tongue swiping out across her lips, and Hermione echoes the movement, tasting the cocoa on her lips.

“I’d like you to come with me,” Hermione tells her again. “I asked Ginny first, of course. I know... I know there’s history there. And if you don’t want to go that’s fine, but Ginny’s okay with it. We’re all moving on you know, and the past and everything that happened,” Hermione waves her hand, trying get across her point. “It’s all in the past you know? I’m not saying it doesn’t matter, because it does, but what matters more is what we do now.”

Millicent seems shocked, and the tension has finally left her shoulders. She’s looking at Hermione, hands gone lax around her cup, and if she’s not careful she’ll spill it over onto the papers, but Hermione tries not to worry about that now.

“And what I want now,” Hermione says, remembering a conversation from weeks ago, one that had been about _alcohol_ of all things, Millicent saying _‘you should figure out what you want’_ , “What I want now is to move on from the past. And for you to come with me to the party.”

It feels too much this time, just like it did then. Hermione's a little embarrassed, can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. Millicent doesn’t look much better, the redness on her cheeks stark against her skin. Hermione looks away, down at her own cup, and she takes another sip, grimacing when it’s gone cold.

“I’ll come to the party,” Millicent says. “But if it’s as big as you say I want to look my best. What are you wearing?” Millicent’s voice sounds steady, and she might as well be talking about a parchment they need to grab from the records, but when Hermione sneaks a glance, Millicent’s cheeks are still flushed.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admits. She hasn’t thought that far in advance, was probably going to pick from one of her dresses the day-of. She’s only got a few dresses which are party appropriate anyway.

When she tells Millicent as much, Millicent recoils, her lip curling, and she looks every bit the aristocrat she sounded only moments before.

“No,” Millicent says, and her tone makes it clear it’s not up for debate. “No. If we’re going to a big party, we need to dress appropriately.”

“And appropriately means?”

“We can head into Diagon Alley and see if we can sort something,” Millicent says, ignoring Hermione’s question. “It’s awfully late for it, but we can probably get something tailored off the racks. It’s not ideal, but it will work.”

It’s all going a little over Hermione’s head. She usually shops at Muggle shops anyway, smart suits and skirts which wouldn’t look out of place in a Muggle office. Things that cost more than she should probably spend, but help her look the part, certainly help her _feel_ the part — it’s not always easy following on from having a wand in saving the wizarding world and being associated with the one and only Harry Potter. The suits help her feel like she belongs, like she's earned her place in the Ministry of Magic, even if she’s not always sure she did.

But where Hermione always looks professional, Millicent’s clothes always seem to be more than. She looks every part the aristocrat, or pure-blood witch, suits perfectly tailored in a way that tugs at something inside Hermione.

“I might have plans tonight,” Hermione says, because her head is spinning, and she doesn’t know what else to say.

“Do you?” Millicent asks, raising one of her impeccable eyebrows again.

She does have plans. It’s just that they involve Bowie, Crookshanks, and reading a book. She’s not sure they really count.

“I guess I can make it.”

Millicent’s cheek ticks, and Hermione knows she’s been caught out. “Right,” Millicent says, pulling out a piece of parchment from her desk and scribbling something on it. “Tonight, Dents and Daughters, at seven.”

Hermione’s never even heard of Dents and Daughters, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She’ll look it up later.

“Alright,” she agrees.

“Wonderful,” Millicent says. “Now if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something.”

Hermione turns her attention back to her own desk and the paper memos that have accumulated during her time with the task force. There’s the familiar scratch of Millicent’s quill and the mess of papers just out of her periphery as she picks up the first note.

It feels good to be back.

* * *

The shop is like nothing Hermione has ever seen.

There are suits and dresses in the window, each one fancier than the last. Hermione thought the suits Millicent wore to work were fancy, but these suits are far and beyond them. They’re extravagant, decadent, _opulent_. Even Hermione can tell at a glance that they are expensive. Exquisitely expensive no doubt, and Hermione feels out of her depth just _looking_ in the window _._ She definitely does not belong here.

Hermione steps closer to the first mannequin which is dressed in a gorgeous purple suit covered in tiny gold stitching of different sized swirls. When Hermione leans in closer, she swears the swirls are moving — a trick of the eye maybe, like one of those seeing eye puzzles, but it looks like they’re moving inwards, the swirls rotating round slowly. Every time she looks closer at the sharp cut lapel of the jacket or the fine drape of fabric used for the trousers she can’t seem to focus on the movement, a secret dance of glittering thread across the clothes.

In the next window there’s a gold waistcoat and cloak. The cloak is lined in what looks like flowers, maybe, and these also are moving in a gentle undulating pattern that makes the flowers look like they’re blowing in the wind. Every flower is different, and there’s something about them that makes Hermione want to touch, to feel the petals under her fingertips. She couldn’t name the different types of flowers or the fabric used, but she can tell that the gently moving petals would each feel different to the touch, soft and real and divine, like wearing a fairy flower meadow.

The next mannequin has a dress and hat on, both pink and made of what looks like velvet. It’s the softest pastel pink with gold accents, except when Hermione moves closer the colour seems to change, until they’re both deep burgundy. She steps back from the window in surprise, and the colour changes again. A deep violet this time, and she thinks the hat might have grown a flower to match — she’s sure that wasn’t there before.

She looks back to the suits, gasping when she sees the mannequins have moved, approaching each other, one leaning in as if offering the other its hand to dance. They do dance then, in front of her very eyes, a slow waltz that reminds Hermione of the Yule Ball, only dressed so much more elegantly than anything that had been worn that night. She considers turning around and walking away. This place is nothing like anything she’s seen before, and she feels so very out of her depth.

“There you are,” a familiar voice says from behind her. “Shall we?” Millicent offers her hand, a parallel of the dance the suited mannequins are still undertaking in the window behind them.

Hermione wants to leave, to tell Millicent that all this is pointless, but Millicent’s eyes are imploring her, and despite the foreboding feeling in her stomach, Hermione takes her arm.

* * *

Hermione felt awe to the point of intimidation just looking in the window, but when Millicent ushers them inside it’s overwhelming. Staff seem to appear immediately, walking up to Millicent with a familiarity that shows itself with hugs and kissing on cheeks. Hermione hangs back behind her, looking around the store. Half the walls are covered in carefully hung displays of dresses and suits, and the others in shelves housing bolts of fabric. The fabric comes in every colour and texture she can think of, some of them she’s sure are moving as well, and it’s all a little too much, so Hermione focuses on Millicent instead and tries not to think about how out of place she feels.

Hermione’s eyes flit along the closest rack of gowns, and she has no idea what she’s meant to want to try on. It reminds her a little of the first time she’d tried a wand at Ollivanders. This time, instead of picking up a wand only to have it yanked away from her, she’s expected to try on dresses only to be told they’re all wrong. She’s never felt comfortable in wizarding robes shops. There’s always so much attention paid to you, Madam Malkin hovering with pins and judgements. Compared to the anonymity of Muggle shopping it’s just never been something she’s been able to adjust to, and it takes a level of confidence and comfort in her body that she’s not yet obtained.

A severe-looking woman with a bobbed haircut comes to stand next to Hermione where she’s staring vacantly at a display mannequin.

“Hard to choose?” the sales associate asks.

Hermione feels her cheeks heat up. The woman sounds kind, but Hermione still feels like she’s been caught out, her inexperience making her stand out like a lighthouse at sea.

“I… I don’t even know where to start.”

“Would you like to go through to the fitting rooms, and I can bring you some pieces to start with?”

Hermione looks at the lady gratefully. It's nice to have someone else take charge of the situation, and she likes the sound of private fitting rooms and not being pinned and prodded while on display in the centre of the shop like at Madam Malkins. “Yes, thank you.” She sighs and follows the woman through a curtained archway at the rear of the shop.

The first dress is a low cut soft blush pink in a structured fabric. It’s gorgeous, and it fits perfectly, but somehow feels too tight in a way Hermione can’t quite put her finger on. She feels stiff. Hermione takes a deep breath before she steps out of the fitting room to show the attendant. She can hear Millicent’s laugh near-by. She hopes she isn’t disappointed.

“Hmm,” says the sales associate. “That’s not the right one for you is it?”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Hermione confesses, and the attendant ushers her back into the fitting room, this time with a different dress.

It doesn’t feel like she’s been judged or rejected — it’s just not the dress for her.

Hermione has carefully rehung the pink gown on its padded hanger and a hand passes her a gorgeous vivid green flowy dress that Hermione slips on easily. When Hermione looks in the mirror she doesn’t like it. She feels swallowed by the ballooning fabric and if anything it’s more uncomfortable than the first dress. Its dropped waist means Hermione feels even more pressure to stay straight and tall. When she cautiously shows the attendant, she gets a quick shake of the head with a small smile.

“Close with the colour I think, but not the right one for you,” is the assessment, and Hermione is sent her back in with a third dress.

The dress doesn’t look like much on the hanger, a peachy white dress with long sleeves. The sleeves hang off the shoulder, puffing out and then coming back in tight around her wrists. Hermione struggles a little to put it on, but when she turns around to check her reflection in the mirror, it looks amazing.

“Ah yes!” the attendant says when Hermione walks out. “You like this one, don’t you?”

“I do,” Hermione agrees, “but I’m not sure of the colour?” The peachy pink is nice, and looks good, Hermione can even admit it looks nice _on her_. The light colours match her own skin well, and she thinks if she were another person, she’d probably love it. It’s just not the colour for her — there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right. She’s got nothing against pink, usually, but there’s something about looking at herself in a fluffy pink dress that just feels wrong — a little too Disney Princess maybe, and she’s grown past that, thank you very much. “Do you have it in another colour?”

The woman laughs, although it doesn’t sound malicious. She waves her wand with a word that Hermione doesn’t catch, and when Hermione turns back to the mirror the dress has changed, now a deeper green, almost grassy in colour. It’s more than just the colour actually, there’s embossing now, a gold flower pattern across the material over her chest.

“Oh yes,” she says, but the attendant is still frowning, and she waves her wand again. Hermione sees it change this time, into a deep blue-green. Hermione likes it even more, but before she can say anything the attendant waves her wand, and the dress ripples like the ocean, and this time it’s much brighter, a turquoise or teal colour, and Hermione’s mouth falls open at the sight of it.

“I love it,” she says, turning back to the attendant, but she’s still pursing her lips slightly, and she waves her wand again, and Hermione catches the way the gold at her chest ripples, leaving behind the embossed pattern, but in teal now, too.

“One moment,” she says, darting off. Hermione turns back to the mirror again.

The dress really is gorgeous, far prettier than any dress she thinks she’s worn before. The skirt of it goes all the way to the ground, barely touching and trailing a little behind her. There’s a slit up the leg, and Hermione twists and turns, sticking her leg out to show it off, feeling a little silly for doing it, but loving it all the same. She’s still staring at herself in the mirror when the attendant arrives again, stepping in behind her and securing a belt to her waist. It's the same pattern as the gold on her dress had been, and the same darker green the dress had been last time, or at least so she thinks.

The belt brings the dress in at the waist, accentuating the flow of the skirt even more, and the colour complements it beautifully, and even Hermione, for all her fashion ineptitude, can see that it’s perfect.

Hermione can’t find the words to describe the dress, but she nods, and hopes the grin on her face speaks for her.

“Stay here,” the attendant says, and then ducks off behind the other curtain.

Hermione stands where she is, taking it all in. The dress looks and feels perfect, a mix of elegance and fun, and Hermione looks ready for anything — a red carpet or tea with the Queen, and definitely, ready for Ginny’s birthday party. She can’t wait for everyone to see her in this.

She sticks her foot out through the slit again, wiggling her stockinged toes and showing her leg off to the mirror. It’s fun, makes her feel like a model, and it’s not like there’s anyone here to see her do it.

Of course it’s then that the curtain opens, and Millicent walks out.

Hermione freezes, stuck like a rabbit in the headlights.

Millicent has been fitted out, and Hermione takes a moment to look her over, really look. She looks absolutely amazing. Millicent always looks amazing, but her work clothes have nothing on what she’s wearing today. Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything like it, not on Millicent, not on anyone.

She’s wearing trousers, which doesn’t surprise Hermione, but where her usual work attire looks professional, these are elegant, almost like something one would wear on a runaway. It all works and fits together perfectly, from her pin-striped trousers, to the deep green shirt she’s wearing them with. She’s got on a waistcoat, too, the same pattern as Hermione’s belt, and to finish it off she has a gorgeous green open robe, with puffed sleeves that echo Hermione's own.

 

 

 

> Image Description: A drawing of Hermione and Millicent in side-by-side changing rooms. Hermione wears an off-the-shoulder green dress with an intricate gold belt and detailing around the top. It is floor length and has a slit up the thigh. Millicent wears pin-striped trousers, a floor-length jacket, a collared shirt, and a waistcoat that matches Hermione’s belt. Both are barefoot and looking at each other with admiration. Art by [ nixhydr](https://nixhydr.tumblr.com/). Rebloggable tumblr art post available [here](https://nixhydr.tumblr.com/post/186123191582/shes-stunningly-gorgeous-and-hermione-cant-even).

She’s stunningly gorgeous, and Hermione can’t even find the words to say it.

“Well?” Millicent says, her own cheeks lighting up with a flush of red. “What do you think? Is it too much? You said the party was a big deal and I thought…” Her voice trails off, and Millicent shoves her hands in her pockets, and it’s enough of a _Millicent_ thing to bring Hermione back to the moment. “I could lose the robe if it’s too much, or the waistcoat?”

“No,” Hermione says, “No it’s perfect. You look fantastic.”

Hermione wouldn’t have thought Millicent could go any redder, but she does, the colour bleeding up to her ears. She looks away from Hermione, down to her own stocking feet.

The attendant — Hermione learns then from Millicent that her name is _Ms Dent_ and she feels a little silly for not expecting that — shoos them back to their own rooms. She comes into Hermione’s a moment later, pinching and pinning at Hermione’s dress until she’s satisfied with it. Hermione thought it was perfect, but she can admit it looks better after Ms Dent’s done with it. The dress reverts to the peach-pink when Hermione takes it off, but Ms Dent assures her she’ll have the dress looking exactly the same, dyed, decorated and fitted by Friday, and delivered to her home address.

Then she ushers Hermione and Millicent out the front door, and flips the sign to ‘closed’.

The mannequins have moved again, the one in a dress now lying down on a chaise longue, and the other mannequins are now sitting on a proper couch, one with its feet in the other's lap.

Hermione tears her eyes away from the mannequins to Millicent. It feels awkward in a way it hasn’t been for a while, the usual easy space between them filled with something new. Hermione’s aware it’s her too, but she can’t get the image of Millicent standing there looking at her with a flush on her cheeks out of her head, and it makes her blush just at the memory.

God, she really needs to get it together.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” She’s not sure why she’s made it a question, only she feels off balance, nothing certain and like they’ve broken the routine she had before this. “Thank you for agreeing to come with me,” she adds.

She wants to say something more, like she doesn’t want to go home just yet, when home was the only place she was looking forward to going earlier today. But tonight has been fun, and Hermione is more reluctant than she would have expected to part ways with Millicent. Still, she bites down on her tongue when she thinks about saying anything.

“See you tomorrow,” Millicent agrees.

They wave their goodbyes, and Hermione ignores the twisting in her stomach as she walks away. It’s probably nothing.

* * *

The week passes faster than she anticipated. Time moves fast, faster than she wants while simultaneously feeling like it stretches out forever. The anticipation and apprehension sits underneath her skin, and part of her wants the day of the party to come closer, but part of her wants for it to never come. She throws herself into case research at work, first into the active cases, and then the case study they’re both asked to research. It’s enough to keep her occupied at work, but outside of work she struggles, and she finds herself trying to distract herself. Friday night passes with fitful sleep at best, and when Saturday comes Hermione feels like she might vibrate out of her skin.

She’s thankful for the distraction of helping set up at the Burrow, and she spends half the day there, until everything is set up, and she needs to head home to start to get ready. Showering and dressing calms her, and she brushes and styles her hair, puts on her makeup. There’s always been something soothing about getting dressed, and she remembers how putting on the Hogwarts uniform had helped to ease her anxiety, made her feel ready for whatever Hogwarts had to throw at her.

It’s the same now, and when she finally puts on her dress, she feels ready. The butterflies are still there, but they’re manageable, no longer a storm but a fluttering tickle. Present, but not overpowering.

The doorbell rings, and Hermione slips her stockinged feet into her heels. She grabs her bag and slips on her coat before she opens the door.

Millicent is just as breathtaking as before, and Hermione second guesses herself, suddenly questions all of her decisions. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to invite Millicent to a _party?_

Millicent looks amazing, almost exactly the same as she had looked at Dents and Daughters. She’s styled her hair up, the fringe that usually hangs down pushed up and back from her face, and she’s wearing lace up shoes, black and brown with patterns on them. It all looks so wonderful, _Millicent_ looks so wonderful, that Hermione’s brain abandons her.

“Shall we?” Millicent asks with a smile on her face, offering Hermione her arm.

“Yes,” Hermione says, pulling the door closed behind her — God, she’s lucky Crookshanks didn’t try to make a break for it. That’s the last thing she needs. She has a brief flash of trying to chase Crookshanks round the garden in her dress, and she’s extra grateful he hadn’t taken advantage of her mental lapse. She locks the door, dropping her keys into the bag, and then takes the offered arm, her stomach already swooping as if from Apparition.

With a loud crack, they’re away.

* * *

“You know, I was a little worried when you asked if you could bring along Millicent,” Ginny says, later on in the night after nibbles and drinks, enough of them that Ginny’s cheeks are tinged red, and she’s at that point of the night were she’s even more outspoken than usual, although thankfully not any louder — Hermione isn’t sure she could take a louder Ginny. “But she seems to be having a good time.”

Ginny’s right, of course, and Hermione’s worries about Millicent turned out to be all for naught, because as soon as they walked in Millicent fit right in, socialising with everyone from Ginny to Fleur, moving between different people at the party with an ease that Hermione's a little jealous of. She’s currently engaged in what looks like a riveting conversation with Luna. Hermione can’t tell what the conversation is about, but Luna has a smile on her face, and Millicent is watching her intently, the look of someone who is clearly paying attention in the conversation. Hermione knows what that feels like, to have all of Millicents attention on you at once, the way she listens and pays attention, the sharp wit she possesses, and how it feels, when Millicent looks at you, and only you.

Luna gives a laugh, the high-pitched tone echoing around the room, even over the music that Lee Jordan has going for the night, and Hermione watches as Millicent laughs too, smiling down at Luna. Hermione feels a flush of something in her stomach, though she can’t put her finger on it. Maybe it’s just the champagne making itself known, but Hermione doesn’t think so. She doesn’t want to examine it too closely, doesn’t want to ruin her happy mood.

Hermione continues to watch Millicent as she talks and laughs with Luna. Millicent may be her guest, but it’s not like she has to stick around Hermione, she’s allowed, welcomed even, to talk to others. This is what Hermione wanted, for bridges to be mended and to have Millicent get along with everyone, to be one of her friends that she could bring along to parties like this, if she wanted.

“Too good a time maybe,” Ginny says with a laugh, dragging Hermione from her thoughts. Hermione looks up at her, blushing at being caught watching, “I think I’m going to go rescue my girlfriend, come on.”

Ginny drags her over without another word, and when they make it over to Luna and Millicent, Ginny doesn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around Luna, draping herself over her girlfriend.

“Hey babe,” she says, “wanna dance?”

“Oh,” Luna says, “but I was just having a lovely chat with Millicent about Kerr Pixies.”

“It’s fine,” Millicent says with a smile that she directs at Luna and Ginny together. “Enjoy your dance. It is a party.” Millicent turns her smile to Hermione, and Hermione feels herself smile back without any conscious decision to do so.

Ginny takes Luna off with a shared giggle that Hermione thinks has nothing to do with the champagne flowing through her veins, and everything to do with Luna; the smile that had disappeared for so long after the war. The music abruptly switches, and Hermione looks up to see Lee grinning as a vigorous jazz tune starts playing through the tent, the sound of humming from the song playing over the speakers. Ginny seems to enjoy it, dancing Luna across the dancefloor with more energy than form, and Hermione is happy for her, she is, and she smiles as she watches them go.

God she does love them.

“May I have this dance?” Millicent asks, offering her hand.

“I’m not really very good at dancing,” Hermione replies, but when Millicent doesn’t immediately recoil at the words, she takes the offered hand, letting Millicent lead her out to the dancefloor.

“That’s alright,” Millicent says, “it won’t be anything as fancy as _them.”_ She nods her head in Ginny’s direction, and Hermione turns her head just in time to see Ginny dip Luna, then almost drop Luna, then recover and pull them both up, giggling and gripping each other tight.

“For both our sakes, I think that’s for the best.”

Millicent smiles at that, taking one of Hermione’s hands in her own, and placing the other on Hermione’s back, and starts to move them across the dance floor. It’s kind of fun and nice, and when Millicent twirls her, she only messes it up a little bit, getting her arm stuck behind her back, and they have to break away.

Millicent’s laughter bursts out loud, and Hermione finds herself laughing along with it.

“Shall we try that again?” Millicent asks after a moment of laughter, arms still braced together. Hermione nods willingly, trying to stifle her own laughter as she steps back in to take Millicent’s hand again.

The song fades out, changing to something a bit slower. The song is nice, another Jazz song. It has a good rhythm that Hemione keeps up with alright. Hermione can see out of the corner of her eye that even Ginny seems to have calmed a little, the two of them doing a more usual dance this time, although the way they’re pressing their bodies together is less regular.

Hermione tears her gaze away from the two of them, bringing her attention back to Millicent and their own dancing. Millicent is good at this, and she goes slowly. She somehow finds a rhythm that both compliments the music and isn’t too fast for Hermione, and Hermione feels like she’s starting to get the hang of it by following along with Millicent’s movements. This time when Millicent tries to twirl her, Hermione tries harder to go with it, and somehow that makes it even worse, feet not catching up to the movement. Hermione feels herself going down, unable to right herself between her dress and heels, and there’s a moment of panic, like missing a step on the floating stairs back at Hogwarts. It’s only a moment of falling before there are hands around her, saving her from the ground. They wrap tight and hold her for a moment before pulling her back up to standing.

“Thank you,” Hermione says, feeling her face flush. “I think I’m a bit rubbish at this.”

“That’s rubbish,” Millicent counters. “You’re trying too hard, just go with the music and don’t try to rush it.”

The music changes, something a little slower, guitar playing over the speakers, and it takes until Linda Perry starts her crooning for Hermione to place it. Millicent slows them down, taking smaller steps that are more of a sway than anything, but it’s nice. It's gentle and soft, and Hermione wants to step in closer, to slide herself into Millicent’s space and rest her head on Millicent’s shoulder maybe, even when the more energetic chorus starts playing.

She’s only wearing small heels, but it gives her enough of a height boost that she’s eye level with Millicent. She should probably be watching her feet and trying her best not to step on Millicent’s toe, or fall over again, but she can’t draw her gaze away from Millicent, from the way her hair is pulled back, showing off the soft pink flush of her cheeks and her beautiful eyes — usually hidden under her fringe. Up this close Hermione can see the freckles dotting her cheeks, and Hermione wants to trace her fingers across them, learn their patterns like she used to learn the constellations in Astronomy class.

“Just go with it,” Millicent whispers, breath puffing against Hermione's lips, and by the time she processes the words, Millicent is already moving her, sending her out away from Millicent, and Hermione mourns the lost proximity immediately. Hermione spins, Millicent twirling her out and then back again, bringing Hermione in close to her.

Hermione’s managed it this time, but when she's spun back into Millicent’s arms, her hands come up to hold at Millicent’s biceps, fingers gripping tight and pulling her closer.

Everything seems to slow as she looks into Millicent’s eyes and see the flecks of gold standing out in her irises. Hermione is staring, she knows she is, but Millicent is staring right back at her. Millicent is all she sees, all she can feel, the rest of the world and party around them fading out. When Millicent’s tongue flicks out to lick her lips, Hermione’s eyes dart down, catching the flash of her tongue, the pink of her lips. It would be so easy to close the distance, to seal their mouths together.

The thought feels like it comes from nowhere, like someone coming up behind you and placing their hand on your shoulder without any warning, and it shocks Hermione just the same. She’s winded, her stomach flipping at the suddenness of it, and Hermione pulls back, putting some much needed space between them.

“I need some air,” she says as the song fades out around them. She’s moves away, as fast as she can in her heels, and pushes the plastic curtain aside to exit the tent.

The air outside is cool and bracing. Hermione takes deep breaths, trying to fill her lungs and calm the hurricane that’s taken up residence in her heart. She places her hand on her chest, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she sucks in the air, trying to calm herself enough to get her thoughts back under control. She practises the breathing patterns she learnt after the war, when it was all too common for her body to fall into a panic. _One breath in, count to four, hold for seven, out again for eight,_ the old habit restoring some calm to her brain. The chill of the air helps, a discomfort that ties her to her body. She’s already got goose pimples on her arms, and though she's grateful for the chill, she half wishes for her coat, knowing she won’t be able to stay out for long without it. She can’t go back inside until she feels a little more composed, so she wraps her arms around herself, focuses on her breathing, and tips her head up to look to the sky.

She focuses on the stars, finding the stars and constellations she's learned, like Sirius and Canis Major. Locating the constellations helps to calm her some too — that is until she sees Orion’s Belt, and thinks of how the freckles under Millicent’s left eye were almost the same pattern.

Hermione's cheeks grow warm at the memory of Millicent’s arms around her, of their breaths intermingling, of Millicent’s lips, and how much she wanted to kiss them. And she _had_ wanted to kiss them. It caught her off guard, that feeling, the desire to kiss. She’s only really wanted to kiss one person before, and it’s been so long since she wanted to kiss Ron. When she looks back, she realises the feelings for Millicent have been building for longer than she’s known, that at some point over the past few weeks Millicent’s moved from a colleague, to a friend, to something more.

The feeling is simultaneously terrifying and comforting. It's one of the scariest things she can think of, but it also settles something within her, the recognition of what her feelings are, of _why_ she’s felt so off balance around Millicent.

_I want to kiss Millicent_ , she thinks, testing the words out in her mind.

The world keeps on turning. The thought isn’t so scary anymore.

“Hermione?” The voice of the very person occupying her thoughts interrupts her. “Are you okay?” Millicent's voice is tinged with concern.

“I am,” Hermione says, although she’s not entirely sure that's true. She’s not _not_ okay though, so it’s not a lie. The feeling is still bubbling within her, and Hermione isn't sure she can keep it inside if she tries. She doesn't want to. "Only... I have something I need to tell you.”

One more breath in, breathing deeply to fill her lungs, then exhaling, the sound of it like a sigh. She still doesn’t feel ready for it, but she pushes through, dragging her attention from the sky and stars to Millicent. The light from the party still going inside the tent shines behind her, and it makes the shadows on her face more obvious, concern written across her cheeks. Even now, Hermione _still_ wants to kiss her. How did she never realise?

“I want to kiss you," she blurts out, because she doesn't think she can keep them inside any longer.

“Oh." Millicent's eyes widen.

“I think I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now,"Hermione continues, the words tumbling out once she starts. “I’m not even sure how long really. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but I needed to say it. If you don't want to kiss me that's fine.” She tries to ignore the way her chest clenches at the thought of Millicent rejecting her. It’s not something she’s considered — she hasn't considered any of this really, just jumped in feet first, all Gryffindor bravado like Harry.

Millicent blinks, seemingly frozen, and Hermione turns away from her, and looks back up at the stars. She looks at Sirius and tries not to let the sting of rejection affect her too much.

“I won't make it awkward," she promises, even though she knows it mostly likely will be. They’re already past the point of no return, and Hermione’s the one to blame. But the alternative was keeping it all inside, and Hermione’s trying not to do that anymore, having seen the way these things grow and fester.

"Hermione.”

Hermione tries to quiet her thoughts, blinks her eyes and tries not to let the tears she can feel pricking the back of her eyes out.

Millicent’s hand wraps around the wristlet on her dress, and Hermione lets herself be pulled to face her, lets Millicent take her other wrist too. She focuses on Millicent’s waistcoat, on the gold pattern that matches the decoration on her own dress. The flowers are intricate enough that Hermione can pretend she’s following the pattern with her eyes, even as she wants to bury her head in them and let herself cry.

Millicent squeezes Hermione's wrists, and it’s enough to drag her attention back to Millicent’s eyes.

"I want to kiss you too.” Millicent says the words slowly, sounding more posh again, and Hermione wonders if she’s heard them wrong, or if maybe Millicent means something different, like _I want to kiss you on the cheek in sympathy._ Maybe it’s something people do in the circles Millicent comes from. “May I?”

She still doesn’t quite believe it, but regardless, Hermione still gasps out, “Please,” in response.

Hermione sucks in a breath of air, and Millicent’s hands abandon her wrists, coming up to cup her cheeks, and Hermione doesn’t let herself hope, barely lets herself _breathe,_ as she waits. Time moves slow, or maybe Millicent does, because it feels like she waits so long, long enough that she’s starting to get dizzy, when Millicent closes the distance, pressing their lips together in the softest of kisses.

It shocks out a gasp from Hermione, causing Millicent to break the contact, pulling away enough to look up at her.

“Is that alright?” she asks, voice barely a whisper, but Hermione can still hear the uncertainty in it, the slight quiver.

“Yes,” Hermione replies. She’s just about to ask Millicent to do it again, when Millicent closes the distance herself, capturing Hermione’s lips once more.

This kiss means business, Millicent’s hands on her face gripping more firmly, almost holding her in place as Millicent kisses her. Hermione hands come up, one finding purchase on Millicent’s waistcoat, the embroidery soft beneath her hand, the other gripping onto Millicent’s arm, as if to say, _please don’t let go of me._ Millicent doesn’t, holding Hermione still as she snogs all thoughts of anything but kissing Millicent from Hermione’s brain. She leaves little kisses against Hermione’s lips, never really breaking the contact as she kisses her over and over again. Hermione opens her lips, and she feels the groan from Millicent against her mouth. Hermione wants to taste her, and she flicks out her tongue, tasting the wine Millicent has been drinking and something else. Vanilla, Hermione thinks, as she licks it from Millicent’s lips, and then Millicent’s tongue meets hers, and Hermione can’t help but gasp again, this time into Millicent’s mouth.

Hermione’s knees go weak as Millicent licks into her mouth. She can feel her body starting to react, and Hermione wants to close what little distance they have between each other, to feel Millicent’s body against her own. Hermione just _wants_ so much it’s dizzying, and she might fall if not for the way Millicent’s gripping her, holding her up.

It’s far too soon when Millicent pulls away, and Hermione actually _whines_ and considers giving in and closing the distance. Millicent’s lips are one of the most attractive things she’s ever seen, flushed red and glistening. _I did that,_ Hermione thinks, and she’s about to kiss her again when Millicent pulls away, swiping her thumb over Hermione’s cheekbone. It’s only then that Hermione realises her cheeks are wet, and her eyes are stinging.

“You’re crying?”

Hermione’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire, the tear tracks cold against her cheeks, and she tries to duck her head, but Millicent holds her face firm.

“I got a bit overwhelmed,” Hermione admits, though she’s not truly sure when the tears started. She feels like she’s so happy she could burst, but even just a moment before the kiss Hermione hadn’t been expecting it to happen. “I thought you were trying to let me down easy.”

“No,” Millicent says, forcefully. “No, not at all. There’s no world in which I was going to do that. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

The words are a shock straight to Hermione’s stomach, and she can barely comprehend them.

“How long?”

Millicent shrugs. “Long enough,” she replies. “I thought you were straight. Didn’t really think it was a possibility.”

“Not straight,” Hermione says, “And it’s definitely a possibility. We should do it again in fact.”

It’s all Hermione wants to do, sod Ginny and sod the party, sod all of it, She'd rather just stay here, snogging Millicent until Hermione’s kissed every taste off Millicent’s lips.

A short sharp ringing sound interrupts them as they lean in to close the distance again, followed by more of the same and someone yelling “Toast!” Hermione groans, bypassing Millicent’s lips entirely to drop her head against Millicent’s shoulder.

Millicent laughs softly. “We should go inside.”

“We should,” Hermione agrees, somewhat reluctantly.

Millicent rubs once at Hermione’s back before stepping away from her, taking away her touch and warmth and starting back towards the tent opening. Hermione misses her already, wants to step in close and take Millicent’s hand in her own, but she’s not sure if she’s allowed that, doesn’t know where the line is for Millicent, or what this even means. It was just a kiss, but Hermione doesn’t do _just kisses._ She wants it all, and it’s dizzying to realise just how much that’s true.

“We’ll talk after though, right?” Hermione asks, as she follows after Millicent.

“Of course,” Millicent smiles at her as she opens the curtain, standing aside for Hermione to walk through first, and they slip back into the party.

* * *

The party starts wrapping up in that slow way that parties often do. It’s well after midnight, and Hermione knows there’s some talk of an afterparty somewhere else. Ginny’s never one to call it a night prematurely, so Hermione’s sure there are plans to carry on the celebrations, but she’s not sure she can take much more of it tonight.

There’s been a thrumming underneath her skin since she kissed Millicent — or since Millicent kissed _her_. They’ve been dancing around each other all night, and Hermione feels aflame with it, like a potion slowly rising from a simmer to a boil. Now that she knows what she wants, now that she knows she can have it, it’s all she can think about. All she wants to do is kiss Millicent again.

Hermione ducks away from where Ginny, Ron and Harry are talking, the two siblings louder than anyone else in the room. Even from across the floor she can hear them planning to carry on the party at Grimmauld Place, and another night Hermione may have joined them, would have been happy to wind down with her friends over a cup of tea and kip the night in any one of Harry’s spare rooms.

But tonight is not a usual night.

She slides next to Millicent, bumping her fingers into Millicent’s, but not linking their hands together, despite how much she wants to.

“A few people are planning to head back to Harry’s,” Hermione says. “Do you want to leave now before they ask us to join?” She takes a deep breath and adds, “We could head back to mine for a cup of tea.”

It sounds like a line. It might be a line. Hermione’s not sure herself.

“I like tea,” she says with a smile that speaks multitudes, making Hermione’s stomach flutter.

Hermione moves to the exit as quickly as she can while hoping not to catch anyone’s attention, Millicent by her side. As soon as they exit, Hermione reaches for Millicent’s hand, lacing their fingers together as she pulls Millicent along with her. She can barely contain herself while they put distance between themselves and the tent, walking just far enough away that the crack shouldn’t be noticed by everyone still inside, and then she Apparates them both to her front door.

* * *

Hermione kicks off her shoes just inside the door. She should really take them upstairs, but her feet are already aching from standing in the heels all night, and she’s done with them. She wiggles her toes when she sets them free from their confines, wishing she could strip her stockings off too. Millicent follows her lead, placing her shoes next to Hermione’s, and it’s so domestic it tugs at something in Hermione’s chest — and _God,_ Hermione is getting emotional over fucking _shoes._

She shoves the thought down and reaches for Millicent’s hand again. Hermione links their fingers together, pulling Millicent along as she leads the way to the kitchen. She doesn’t even bother with the lights until she comes to the kitchen, still not releasing her hold and turning on the light with her free hand.

The light changes the mood, making Hermione feel off balance again. It’s harder to hide in the harsh light of her kitchen, and she doesn’t _want_ to hide, but it was a little easier when things were dark. It's harder when the lights are on and she feels like she’s completely bared in front of Millicent.

“Do you want a drink?” Hermione asks, dropping Millicent’s hand and moving to the fridge, opening it and inspecting the contents — there’s not a lot in there on a good day, and she doesn’t really have much to drink — a bit of milk, hopefully it’s not off, and half a bottle of fizz that’s probably already gone flat. “I could make us tea?”

“Have you got peppermint tea?” Millicent asks. “I’ll have a cup of that if you’ve got it.”

“I do.” Hermione grabs two mugs from her cupboards and turns the kettle on before placing the teabags in the cups. It makes a good distraction, gives her hands something to do when all she really wants to do is close the distance between them. She doesn’t wait for the kettle to turn itself off; as soon as the water starts to boil she’s pouring it out into the cups. The water turns darker under her watch, tendrils of infused water filtering from the tea bags into the rest of the mugs. It’s not a good enough distraction from her thoughts, from the one thought running round her head over and over.

“I want to kiss you again,” Hermione blurts out.

Behind her, she hears Millicent huff a laugh. “You can,” she says.

Hermione turns around, abandoning the tea without another thought as she closes the distance between them. Hermione leans her body into Millicent, pushing her back against the bench, one hand on Millicent’s hip and another on her neck, and then she closes the distance once more, sealing their lips in a kiss.

It’s even better this time, though Hermione has had that thought every time they’ve kissed so far. It’s only the third time, and she knows logically it can’t keep getting better, but it is. Millicent is soft yet firm beneath her, lips smooth as they open underneath Hermione’s. Hermione takes that as an invitation to lick into her mouth, tasting red wine, and she makes it her goal to taste every hint of it, to lick every trace of it. Millicent’s hands come up to Hermione’s body, one hand sliding along Hermione’s side, and the other coming to rest at her back, pulling Hermione in closer, their bodies bumping against each other.

Now that she’s kissing Millicent, Hermione feels some of the pressure that had been building begin to release, and she’s happy just to kiss. She takes her time, thumb tracing the pattern of Millicent’s waistcoat as her tongue learns Millicent’s mouth, and lets Millicent do the same. When they break away to breathe Millicent drops her face to Hermione’s shoulder, pressing her lips against the bared skin in a lazy kiss that’s mostly just an exhale. It sends a shudder through her all the same, running straight to her groin and making her suddenly, _achingly_ aware of how turned on she is.

Just from kissing.

She wants so much more.

“What if I wanted to do more than kiss you?” Hermione asks, quite bravely she thinks.

Millicent moves her lips away, drawing back to look at Hermione.

“What do you have in mind?”

“What if I wanted to move this to the bedroom?”

Millicent’s eyes flick between her own, searching for something, though what Hermione can’t know.

“If you’re sure,” she says.

“I’m not,” Hermione admits. “But I want to.”

Millicent looks again, and she must find something, because she drops her lips to Hermione’s for a brief kiss before nodding her head.

Hermione takes her hand and leads her away from the kitchen, turning off the light as she goes and leading Millicent to her bedroom. They don’t speak as they walk, and Hermione’s own doubts feel loud again, a cacophony of thoughts all clamoring for her attention, so many of them that she can’t pick out the individual threads. It's like a conversation at a dinner party with too many participants, when you can’t pick out any of the voices, and she tries not to let herself dwell on them, but the noise is overwhelming.

This is so much faster than Hermione has ever moved before, and that scares her a little — but it’s not like she’s got much to go off of. There’s only been Ron before this, and that was a series of stops and starts and stalling out along the way, like a rickety old car you learn to drive in. By comparison, Millicent is a race car, and Hermione wonders if she should slow them down, take some time, maybe make a figurative pit stop. But she doesn’t _want_ to, even the thought of it makes a whine threaten to escape out of her lips. Why should she fight something she _wants_? And Millicent doesn’t seem to have any objections if the way she’s following her is any indication.

When Hermione pushes open the door, she doesn’t turn the main light on, instead heading for the bedside lamp.

Now that they’re here, _in her bedroom,_ it’s harder to ignore what this is. It’s harder still to ignore what she wants, that she _does_ want. The can feel her body reacting, from the heat in her stomach to the dampness between her legs.

“I’ve never done this before,” Hermione says. “Do you do this?”

“Are you asking if I’ve done _this_ before? As in, have sex with another woman?” Millicent asks, and Hermione feels her face flush at the words. Even though she’s thinking it, it still makes her feel hot to hear the words said out loud. “Because I have. But I don’t think you want to hear about that.”

She doesn’t. Not really. She’d been meaning if Millicent went home with people, but Hermione doesn’t want to know that either. She’s a little relieved that Millicent _has_ done this before, even as her stomach twists at the thought of Millicent doing this with someone _else_ , and she tries to shove those thoughts down. Action helps, so she finally closes the distance between them, standing in front of Millicent, hands coming up to Millicent’s hips once more.

She wants to touch skin though, so she pulls Millicent’s shirt from her trousers, slipping her fingers under the material to run her hands along the skin there.

“Can you—” Hermione starts, before biting down on her lip. It’s more than a little embarrassing. There are so many things she wants to do. She wants to peel Millicent’s clothes off her, wants to see her naked, wants to lay her out in bed and _taste_ her, but she’s scared. She’s not done this before, and she’s not had time to prepare. It’s like one of those dreams she used to have about turning up to class without her bag and having missed the readings, and she feels frozen by it, just like in a dream.

“Can I?” Millicent asks, fingers skating over Hermione’s hips.

“I’ve not done this before,” Hermione says again. “Will you show me how?”

Millicent huffs a breath of laughter against her lips.

“Of course,” she says. “There’s nothing I’d love more.”

Millicent helping her take off her dress feels so intimate, the way she moves Hermione to turn around so she can unzip her, placing a kiss at the base of her neck, and then holding the dress for her to step out of. Hermione gets herself out of her stockings while Millicent undoes her waistcoat, then watches as Millicent strips herself of her clothes, placing them all neatly on the chair in the corner usually reserved for Crookshanks. He’s not sitting there of course, scampered off to one of his hiding spots he goes to when strangers are around, not that she’s ever had anybody around like _this_ before. They’re definitely going to have fur on them in the morning, but Hermione can’t bring herself to care.

They kiss again in just their underwear, soft kisses that make Hermione melt, and when Millicent’s hands travel up her back to her bra she leans back to ask Hermione with her eyes, waiting for the downwards jerk of Hermione’s head before her fingers undo the clasp easily.

Then she’s naked, except for her underwear.

Millicent pushes her back onto the bed, and Hermione clambers on it a little awkwardly, refusing to look away from Millicent. She has to shuffle backwards up the bed until there’s room for Millicent to kneel on the mattress between her legs.

“Tell me if you don’t like something,” Millicent says. Before Hermione can open her mouth to say she’s sure it won't be an issue, Millicent adds, “Or if it’s too much, or anything. Let me know okay?”

“Okay,” Hermione gasps out, and then Millicent ducks her head to take a nipple into her mouth.

Hermione gasps out, the sound loud in the room as Millicent mouths at her nipple. She’s never really got the point of having someone play with her nipples before, but Millicent makes her understand, taking the nipple into her mouth, flicking her tongue and even adding a small amount of teeth. Hermione _likes_ it, which is hardly the biggest surprise of the night, but it catches her off guard. Millicent’s other hand comes up to palm at her naked breast, gripping and half massaging the flesh there, and Hermione finds she likes that too. It feels better than it’s ever felt before, no awkward fumbling but instead touching with intent, as if every goal of Millicent’s is to make Hermione feel good — and she’s succeeding. When Millicent releases the nipple from her mouth she blows against it, the air chilling the moisture there. Hermione flinches and arches into it simultaneously, the sensation running straight through her, and then Millicent is moving to her other nipple, starting all over again.

Hermione is gasping for air by the time Millicent decides to move from her nipple. She kisses a course down Hermione’s body, mouthing at her skin, at the softness of her belly that Hermione feels self-conscious about. But Millicent kisses it all, even placing a kiss at her belly button which makes her squirm unexpectedly.

She stops at the elastic of Hermione’s underwear, kissing at the skin just above it, before she brings her fingers to trace at the material.

“Can I?” she asks.

Hermione feels like she might just combust if she _doesn’t_. She nods, eagerly. She can feel how wet she is, soaking through them from just a few kisses and bit of fooling around. It’s never been like this before, and she’s not sure she’s ever been so turned on in her _life,_ let alone just from some kissing and a bit of a fondle.

Millicent slides her underwear down, then skates her hands back up Hermione’s legs, one coming to rest at the inside of her thigh and the other at the junction of her hip.

“Remember,” Millicent says, looking up and catching Hemione’s eyes, “you can tell me if you feel uncomfortable.” She gives Hermione a grin, almost cocky, and adds, “You can tell me what you want too.”

Millicent’s eyes drift down looking to where Hermione is naked before her, on display. Hermione is struck with the realisation that she’s the only one naked, Millicent still in her underwear, and Hermione reaches out, hand finding her shoulder and rubbing at the bra strap there, before digging her fingers into Millicent’s shoulder.

Millicent looks back up to her, eyebrows raising in a question.

“Can you get naked too?”

“Of course.” Millicent grins, making quick work of it, kneeling to take her bra off, and then standing to take off her underwear too. Hermione drinks it all in, from the soft swell of her breasts to the curves she’s seen hints of before. Of course Hermione had already seen most of it before when they’d stripped down, but it’s different now. She barely gets the time to take it all in before Millicent is kneeling on the bed, slipping between her legs, and spreading Hermione’s thighs wider.

It feels more intimate this time, but Hermione barely gets a chance to think about it before Millicent folds herself over, and licks a stripe through her folds to her clit. Hermione whimpers, fisting her hands into the sheets so she doesn’t push them into Millicent’s hair.

Hermione’s had this done to her before, but she always felt more than a little self conscious at the idea of having Ron between her legs, like he was only doing it to her as a quid pro quo. But Millicent is so enthusiastic there’s no doubt in Hermione’s mind, from the way she licks her way along Hermione’s folds, slips her tongue inside Hermione, and then tongues at her clit, that she loves it. Hermione’s already so turned on she can barely stand it, legs shaking and jerking, and stomach quivering, and when Millicent sucks lightly at her clit Hermione cries out, legs pressing against Millicent’s shoulders. It hardly seems to phase Millicent, who continues her actions, and Hermione feels like her whole world is starting to press in on her. The pressure builds between her legs and in her stomach, and she’s never come before from this alone, but she thinks she might now, and it’s the last thought she has before the pressure breaks, pulses of pleasure coming straight from her core to wash over her body like waves.

Hermione is usually startlingly sensitive when she comes. When she gets herself off she has to jerk her hand away to stop the pressure, but Millicent’s mouth just rests against her, and it helps her ride her orgasm out gently, the pulses dulling, if not subsiding completely.

“Fuck,” Hermione says. She releases her hands from the sheets where they’d been trying to rip holes in them, feeling the ache as she stretches them out.

“You liked that then?” Millicent asks, not bothering to hide the amusement in her voice. Hermione looks down to find her wiping her fingers across her face, just like how she dabs at her lips when drinking hot chocolate, only it’s _Hermione_ she’s brushing away, and Hermione’s heart and clit both give a feeble twitch.

“I think you know I did,” Hermione says, and then pulls Millicent up to kiss the grin off Millicent’s face.

“Can I do you?” Hermione asks, when her lips are starting to grow numb. Her body's cooled off a little, but the thought still makes her throb.

“If you don’t, I might have to take matters into my own hands,” Millicent says cheekily, and Hermione has to kiss her again for that, tasting herself on Millicent’s lips as she does. She tries to kiss the grin from Millicent’s face, but she doesn't think it works, not really, not when she can feel her own face cracking on a smile.

Hermione pushes Millicent back against the pillows, then focuses on kissing her way down Millicent’s body. It comes easier than she expected. She kisses everywhere she wants, from the bolt of her jaw, the dip of her neck, and every spot she wants on her way down. She places open-mouthed kisses, leaving a trail of moisture as she goes. She mouths at Millicent’s nipples, testing with her teeth and tugging gently, and the groan Millicent makes at that sounds _delicious._ She places a kiss under the soft swell of Millicent’s breasts — they’re perfectly shaped for her hands, too, smaller than Hermione’s but a perfect fit — and Hermione leaves a hand on one as she mouths the underside of the other, until Millicent starts to squirm and moan beneath her, and Hermione wants to know just how much this is turning Millicent on.

She doesn’t stop her work at Millicent’s breast. She thinks she might be about to leave a bruise, and Hermione thinks she wants that — she’s never left a bruise on someone’s breast before — but her other hand moves down the bed. She hesitates once more, before embracing every shred of Gryffindor boldness and sliding her hand down to cup Millicent, moving her fingers between Millicent’s legs.

She’s so wet, and Hermione has to break away to groan at the sensation, moving away from Millicent’s skin — darkened like there will be a bruise there soon — to moan, wet against Millicent’s skin.

She feels Millicent out, tracing the lengths of her folds, feeling the intake of Millicent’s breath when her finger brushes against her clit. She’s so wet here, and Hermione doesn’t need to dip her finger inside to feel it, but she does — because she wants to. Her finger slips inside easily, and comes out coated, and Hermione is overtaken with desire to _see_ what she’s doing to Millicent. This _is_ her first time having sex with another woman, and she wants to see it all.

Hermione groans when she does get a look. Millicent is wet, so wet it’s starting to run down between her legs. Hermione’s fingers are coated with it, and she watches as she slips one finger in and out of her, seeing the way it comes out wet and shining. She slips another finger inside, watching that too, and she doesn’t miss the way Millicent jerks at that. She strokes Millicent’s clit with her thumb as she pushes her fingers in and out, pushing in as far as she can go before giving them a bit of a wiggle that makes Millicent groan loudly.

She’s struggling to keep her thumb stroking in time with her fingers grinding into Millicent. It’s all a little too difficult, too much coordination for something Hermione’s only trying for the first time, and it frustrates her until she realises she doesn’t have to do it all with her hand — Millicent hadn’t. She ducks her head to bring her mouth to Millicent’s clit, placing a kiss there, and Millicent gasps. It’s easier now, working her fingers inside Millicent while she mouths at her clit, and Hermione can’t remember any of the things Millicent did to her, but she licks and kisses softly at the mound there. Millicent’s breaths are coming faster, legs starting to shake, knees bumping into her waist, and when Hermione thrusts her fingers in as deep as she can, thumb bumping against her own chin, Millicent groans out loud, and Hermione can feel her coming around her fingers, squeezing down on them.

Hermione waits for the pulses to cease before she pulls her fingers out, wiping them off on the sheets — she’s going to have to clean them anyway, Hermione knows she left her own wet patch before. She flops onto her stomach beside Millicent, facing her to take it all in. She’s a mess, hair sweaty and messed up, and Hermione surely isn’t much better, can feel her hair's damp and probably knotty too, but she doesn’t care about any of it.

“I really enjoyed that,” she says softly, because she feels like she should say something.

Millicent huffs out a laugh, turning to her side to face her. “Me too.”

Hermione smiles, bringing her hand up to rest at Millicent’s hip, just to touch her.

“Didn’t even make me a cup of tea,” Millicent says, but her tone is teasing, words light, and Hermione laughs at them.

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow I’ll make you a tea.” _And we'll talk,_ Hermione thinks, because she doesn’t want this to be a one off, but she doesn’t want to ruin their post-orgasmic haze with the words _we need to talk._ Instead she pulls the sheets and duvet up, and lets herself drift off to sleep, hand still resting on Millicent’s hip.

* * *

Hermione wakes up alone.

The bed is cold beside her, and not even Crookshanks is there to keep her company. At first that's all that’s unusual about it. Then she realises she’s naked, then she remembers _why_ she’s naked, and Hermione's stomach drops through the ground.

Millicent’s not in bed — she’s left.

Hermione was going to make tea. They were going to talk.

She contemplates going back to sleep, but she’s no good at falling back to sleep, and the sunlight is shining through the blinds, like it’s telling her to stop being lazy and _get off her arse._ Hermione sighs, not bothering with pyjamas and throwing on a tee and sweats, following it up with an old knitted jumper she’s had so long the sleeves are half threads. They’re some of her most comfy clothes, and she’s already imagining making herself a tea and sitting on the couch with Crookshanks and her blanket.

Except when she walks past the living room, there’s already someone sitting on her couch, legs tucked up under the blanket, and Crookshanks, the traitor, is curled up there too.

Hermione takes a moment to take it all in. Millicent is wearing a pair of Hermione’s pyjamas, the ridiculous Holyhead Harpies ones that Ginny bought her after Ron had bought her some garish Chudley Cannons pyjamas. In truth, she’s barely worn either of them, but the Harpies ones look good on Millicent, the bright green shirt loose around her collar, and Hermione half wants to launch herself into her lap, but Millicent has both a cat and a book there.

“Hey,” Hermione says, from the doorway, smiling down at the sight.

Millicent looks up, her eyes landing on Hermione and a smile crossing her face.

“Hello,” she says warmly. “I made myself tea, hope you don’t mind. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you so I came out here.”

She waves her hand around the room, the living room, a perfectly usual place to sit in. Millicent looks happy, all rugged up and comfortable. There’s nothing Hermione wants to do more than sit down next to her, so she moves to do so, half tripping over a book on her way, eyes too focused on Millicent to watch her feet.

When she looks down she sees _what_ book it is, she feels every bit of blood drain from her body.

She’s frozen, can’t even process what she’s seeing, and Hermione leans down to pick up the book — her _notebook_ , full of all the research she’s done, notes on every case she’s found on Memory Charms, and memory loss, a mix of Muggle and wizarding. It’s got everything she can remember about the spells too, everything she wrote when she first sat down, and all the random memories she captured. Nobody was ever meant to see those things, they’re _hers._

Her notebook that was _definitely_ sitting on the coffee table — she remembers, making a note and placing her pen between the pages in case she thought of something else to add in it.

It’s been moved, and there’s only one person it could have been.

She’s not even let the boys see her notebook, or her progress (or lack of) in getting her parents memory back, and now Millicent has just been leafing through her journal like it’s nothing. Hermione’s blood runs icy cold, and she wants to lash out, feels the same rage she once felt for Malfoy and Parkinson and all of Slytherin, only worse this time, so much worse now that one of them is _rifling through her life,_ and it’s all because _she let her in._

Hermione leans down to pick up the book, holding it in her shaking fingers.

“What were you doing with this?” she asks, voice so full of ice she barely recognises it herself.

Millicent at least has the decency to look ashamed at that, but it does nothing to calm Hermione’s mood.

“Sorry, I saw it and thought it was—”

“You thought you’d just go snooping around in my life is that it?”

“What? No, I—”

“You thought you’d just come in here, and after getting in my pants, you’d see what else you could get into?” Hermione’s full of anger now, like a raging storm, all of her fury lashing down on Millicent, because _how dare she_ . This was hers and she _had no right._ “What gave you the right?”

“I didn’t read it—”

“How could you? I should have known you were just like the rest of them, I can’t believe I let you into my house!”

Something in Millicent’s face snaps, and suddenly her face closes down, and it’s like seeing a mask being slipped over, no hint of any emotion left at all.

“I think,” Millicent says, “that I should leave.”

“I think you should,” Hermione agrees.

Crookshanks has disappeared without Hermione noticing, but Millicent stands up slowly, folding up the blanket. It’s Hermione’s mum's blanket, and it feels like another trespass into Hermione’s life that she used that blanket, just came in and took all the things that Hermione holds dear. Hermione watches her place the blanket on the arm of the couch, but she doesn’t say another word. She’s holding onto her notebook so tight her fingers are starting to hurt, her hands aching from the strain of it, but she can’t bring herself to loosen her grip.

Hermione walks Millicent to the door, and when she opens the door Millicent turns back.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I really didn’t read it. I started to, but when I saw it was personal I put it down.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she adds finally, and then she leaves, and Hermione closes the door behind her, leaning against it and letting all the breath out of her lungs.

The fire is still burning inside her, and Hermione seizes onto it, uses it to motivate herself to move. She’ll clean the flat is what she’ll do, and it feels cathartic when she picks up the half filled cup of tea Millicent had been drinking out of and vigorously tips it out into the sink. The cups from last night are sitting in the drying rack, but Hermione washes them again just for the hell of it, cleaning them and a spoon before shuffling around the kitchen, cleaning and reorganising things as she goes.

The indignant rage carries her through, exactly up until she walks through her bedroom door, and sees the rumpled sheets and both of their clothes lying on the chair in the corner. The bed is still a mess, but Hermione collapses on it anyway, pulling her pillow into her arm, burying her head into it, and hugging it too. It smells like Millicent, and the whole bedroom still smells like sex, and Hermione doesn’t even try to stop the tears when they start to prick at her eyes — they’ve been threatening to fall since she first saw Millicent with the book. It’s like Millicent just waltzed in and took over, traces of her everywhere, from the bedroom to the living room.

She’s already slid into her home, into her life.

Crookshanks jumps onto the bed, meowing at her, and Hermione thinks he’s concerned about her. He curls up in the space between her stomach and her legs, and Hermione buries her hand in his fur too and doesn’t try to stop crying until she’s got no more tears left to give.

* * *

When Hermione wakes the sheets still smell like Millicent and sex. She strips the bed, replacing the sheets with clean ones and throwing them in the laundry basket to deal with later. When she walks back in and sees their clothes still on the chair, she throws them in the basket too, shoving them in far too roughly for the fine material, but Hermione can’t bring herself to care about it. Then she heads to the shower, scrubbing herself from head to foot and standing in the shower long enough that her fingers start to prune up. She barely takes the time to put on pyjamas before she falls back in bed, letting the exhaustion from the night before, and the emotional exhaustion from it all, catch up to her as she drifts off again.

Hermione spends most of Sunday in bed too.

She’s moved on from rage on to the sour taste of shame. It had been there before, if she’s honest with herself, the red hot flush of shame she felt at Millicent seeing all the things she’s done, all the things she’s tried so hard to hide. There are maybe four people who know the whole story, and even with Ron she skimped on the details when telling him. Harry knew everything of course, because there was something about those days and nights in the forest that led to honesty, in the way Hermione wasn’t usually accustomed to. But Millicent just waltzed in and broken open the shell and looked inside, seeing all her pieces.

It’s easy to realise in hindsight that half her fear in the moment was of what Millicent might think about her, but it doesn’t help her now. She’s still so angry.

Hermione’s never been good at letting go of transgressions against her.

When Monday comes she feels even worse, the mixture of anger and shame curdling in her stomach and making her stomach twist with nausea, and she only feels a little bit guilty when she owls in to say she can’t make it in for work. She doesn’t make it in for Tuesday either, and by Wednesday she’s resigned herself to taking a week, just to give herself time to get over it. She can’t even imagine walking in and seeing Millicent’s face yet, and sitting at home ruminating over it probably isn’t helping anyone, but it’s all she can do as she opens up the same parchments and books she’s read before and tries and fails to find the secret key to her parents memory loss hidden within their pages.

Thursday morning she wakes up to an owl scratching at her window.

She opens the window with some hesitation, the owl looks grumpy itself, and she’s half expecting an irate letter from Pezdek. The Ministry owls seem to be particularly astute about their letter contents, and a frustrated letter always means a pecky owl, but the owl just drops the package on her bedside table with not more than a sideways glance at Hermione, before shaking out its feathers and taking off out the window.

Hermione watches as it flies away, the broad wings flapping until it disappears off into the clouds, and only then does she close the window, shutting out the cool air and turning her attention to the delivered package.

It’s obviously not a letter from the Ministry, or not _just_ a letter from the Ministry anyway. It’s a larger package, like one of the care packages Ron used to receive from home when they were at Hogwarts. Except his used to be wrapped in brown paper and twine, and this one has gold wrapping paper, a shiny looking string tied around it and bowed neatly on top. There’s a tag attached to the sting, and Hermione turns it over, recognising the handwriting and her name immediately, even through the nearly illegible handwriting.

Hermione stares at the tag, hoping that it will provide some clue about the package's contents, but nothing magically happens. It’s just a note.

With a little reluctance, Hermione undoes the bow. It’s a soft material, silk or something similar, and Hermione folds it up carefully and places it to the side before unwrapping the present.

The first thing she sees is the flash of familiar green, the pyjamas Hermione had last seen when Millicent walked out her door. They’re clearly washed and folded, and despite herself Hermione brings the pyjamas up to her face, breathing in deeply. They have a familiar smell, and Hermione recognises the scent from the hugs she’s shared with Millicent, the same washing powder, or the smell of her house, something that she’s come to associate with Millicent, and Hermione resists the urge to just bury her face in the pyjamas, even if it’s all she wants to do.

There’s something under the pyjamas, another package, this time a folder, much like the research folders they use in the department, and when Hermione opens the folder, she finds parchments wrapped up delicately. They look older than any of the files she’s read before, more like the books from the Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library. They had such strong protection spells on them just to keep them together, and Hermione remembers how her fingers hadn’t even touched the pages, the invisible barrier almost spongy beneath her fingers, but always present.

The parchments give off a similar feel, her fingers brushing against something less tangible than those parchments. They’re definitely old, older than anything Hermione’s had access to before.

Beneath the parchments there’s a note, familiar lettering once again, and Hermione picks it up to read

_~_

_Hermione,_

_I’ve been doing more research for our shared cold case, and I found some information which seemed pertinent to share with you. It seemed important enough to owl you, despite your current state of illness, so please excuse my impertinence._

_I have found scrolls in the vaults regarding interactions of Memory Charms, and some instances of the Memory Charms seemingly spontaneous reversal. As suspected, emotional states seem to have some bearing on the spells rigidity and associated memories, and moments of intense emotions or emotional distress seem to trigger these memory recoveries, as has been documented in a number of attached scrolls._

_I hypothesise that if we were to find a memory which triggered an intense emotional reaction, we may be able to recover the individual's memory. I believe if someone had shared a memory such as this, and could share it with the individual again (such as through a pensieve) that this could trigger the memories to return._

_I will need to research if such a person exists for Emeritus Professor Lockhart._

_Additionally, if there were any other spells in place which might be hampering the memory recovery, these would need to be countered as well. I will be looking into this shortly._

_You may wish to read over my sources to confirm my conclusions for yourself, for which reason I have included them in my package._

_I look forward to discussing the case further upon your return._

_With Sincerest Regards,_

_Millicent Adeline Bullstrode_

~

Hermione reads the letter through, and then again, and then once more for good measure. The words start to blur before her, and it’s only when she sees a water droplet splash onto the paper that she realises that she’s crying, tears falling from her eyes. She can’t stop them, and like a leaky tap they keep coming, until the ink is starting to smear. Hermione places the note down with the scrolls and pyjamas, leans her head back, and lets them fall, not even trying to stem the flow of tears.

Her face is a mess, eyes swollen, and her shirt wet from the tears when they finally stop. She washes her face in the bathroom, taking in the red puffiness of her appearance, and makes herself a tea, and then she sits down with the scrolls.

By the end of the night she’s organising a Portkey to Australia.

 

###  **Five Weeks Later**

“This is my boss, Head Agent Pezdek,” Hermione announces the first day she returns to work. “And these are my parents.”

Listening to them call themselves her parents, listening to them introduce themselves as _Grangers_ isn’t growing old for Hermione any time soon. It’s been a month, and everytime they do it Hermione can’t help the smile that crosses her face.

In the end, breaking the spell is easier than convincing her parents — or Wendell and Monica Wilkins as they’re known then — to give her the chance to. By some spark of luck they don’t call the police the second she arrives, and she’s able to share a memory with them — that of her acceptance into Hogwarts and the learning of magic. It’s a memory she’s used for a Patronus before, one of Hermione’s dearest, so clear in her mind. Hermione doesn’t ask before she reverses the spells, they barely believe her as it is, and asking if she can do something they don’t even believe is possible seems like a sure way to getting kicked out.

She does it the moment before she shows them the memory.

The month after passes in a blur of activity, packing her parents up and moving them home, and they barely let her out of their sight the whole time. Not that Hermione minds, not when she feels the same. It’s been more than a year since she’s had her parents with her and she feels like she can’t get enough of them. They were understandably a little mad, but Hermione will take her parents being mad every day in exchange for having them back.

She shows them around the office, introducing them to colleagues. Everyone seems excited to meet them, and they might be indulging her, but Hermione supposes it’s not often that Muggles get to enter the Ministry for Magic — she’d had to get approval from Kingsley himself for it.

She shows them everything she thinks they might find interesting, from the office kettle to the paper plane memos, and definitely not delaying their progress to her own desk and the very person who helped get them back to her.

The tension in her stomach is almost palpable, Hermione feels like if she placed her hand on her stomach she could feel her gut twisting into a knot, and when they finally do make it to her desk, it looks like it’s all for naught, since Millicent isn’t even there.

It’s still obviously Millicent’s desk though. It looks the same as it ever did, parchment and books all over the place, one propped up in a manner that can only be magically done, and Hermione takes a moment to inspect it, noting the diagram on the propped open page shows a man slowly growing more and more transparent until he disappears completely. There’s a cup of tea on her desk, and when Hermione puts her hand to it there’s still a trace of warmth, a sign that she can’t have gone far, and the fact that she’d not taken it with her, or taken the time to tip it out, makes Hermione suspect Millicent left in a rush.

Probably because of Hermione herself.

It stings, even if Hermione can’t blame her for it. Not after the last time they’d seen each other — not after the fact that Hermione had thrown her out of her flat, with not a word since.

No, she can’t blame Millicent, but nor is Hermione going to leave it there. She’s left it long enough, been putting it off for too long, and Hermione’s done with that.

“Do you mind waiting here?” Hermione asks her parents, moving on with the promise that she’ll be back soon.

The archives are just as dusty as they always are, the smell of old parchment and charms strong here, and the light sparse at best. There are numerous rows full of books and parchments, full of potential places to take refuge, so many to choose from.

She has a sneaking suspicion though, and when she walks round the corner to the row they used to come to for research, Millicent is sitting right there.

Hermione doesn’t get a chance to consider her approach, because Millicent looks up as she nears, the sound of her shoes echoing through the otherwise silent archives and giving her away. There’s a moment of shock on Millicent’s face, before a mask slides into place, and Hermione hates it, but she can’t blame Millicent for it. There’s a space between them that hasn’t been there since their first days, maybe even before, since it’s personal now. Hermione wants to mend it, and doesn’t know if she can, but she wants to try.

“I was looking for you,” Hermione confesses, moving towards her, slowly like one might a wild animal. Millicent doesn’t look like a wild animal, she looks just as manicured as she always has, wearing a suit and robe, and when she brings herself to standing, she does so with a grace that Hermione has always envied.

“Ah,” Millicent says, her voice slow and words pronounced deliberately. “I didn’t realise. I’ve been doing research.”

There’s an element of truth to that surely, her quill and a sizable book beside her.

“I was able to get my parents memories back,” Hermione says. “With the information you sent me.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Millicent says, and Hermione decides she’s already had enough of this method of approach.

“Look,” Hermione says. “I wanted to apologise. For yelling at you. And for throwing you out of my flat. I panicked, I realise that now. I just… I’d never shared any of that stuff with anyone. And then — I know, you didn’t do it on purpose but you still saw it and it felt like—” Hermione searches for the right word, but she doesn’t have an excuse, doesn’t know how to describe it. “I just panicked, and lashed out, and I shouldn’t have.”

She’s been moving towards Millicent, and Millicent hasn’t been moving away, which Hermione takes as a positive sign. It still feels like taking a chance when she reaches out to close the distance, taking Millicent’s hands in hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking into Millicent’s eyes. “I panicked, but that’s no excuse for how I reacted. And after all of that you still helped me. It’s because of you that I have them back now.”

“I’m sorry too,” Millicent says, and the mask finally drops. Hermione could kiss her, _wants_ to kiss her, but she knows she can’t yet.

“Thank you.” Hermione looks into Millicent’s eyes, and she tries to put all of her emotion into the next words. “I missed you. I wanted to reach out to you almost every day.”

“I missed you too.”

Hermione can feel the tears starting to prick at her own eyes, and she tries to blink them back, knowing that won’t keep them at bay for long. “I know we have things we need to talk about but,” she bites her lip, knowing it’s too much really, but also _wanting._ “I really want to kiss you right now.”

“You can,” Millicent breathes.

Hermione doesn’t second guess it, closing the distance and bringing one hand up to Millicent’s hair, the other pressing into her side. There’s too much force, and she pushes Millicent back into the shelves with it, but Millicent doesn’t do anything more than kiss her back, her own hands coming to rest on Hermione’s hips.

It feels like coming home, almost as much as getting her parents back had, and Hermione loses herself in it, in the familiarity of Millicent’s lips beneath hers. She wouldn’t have imagined how much she could miss this, and how good it feels to have it back, and Hermione would kiss her all day, never leave this spot with Millicent if she didn’t have to.

 

 

 

> Image Description: A drawing of Hermione and Millicent from the waist up. They are in the records room. Millicent stands with her back against the shelf, Hermione in front of her. Hermione holds the back of Millicent’s neck, and Millicent holds Hermione’s waist, as they kiss. Art by [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com). Rebloggable tumblr art post available [here](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/post/186110233398/the-shape-of-our-memories-written).

It’s not until they break for air that Hermione remembers she does have reasons to leave, and Hermione pulls away from Millicent, sliding her hands back down to take Millicent’s in her own.

“My parents are here too,” she says. “Will you come meet them? I want you to.”

“If that’s what you want,” Millicent says, voice giving away no hint of whether its something she wants, but Hermione can see the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Hermione slides her hand down to lace their fingers together.

"Yes," she says, more certain of Millicent than she's felt about anything in a long time. "It's exactly what I want."

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's notes**  
>  Many thanks to:  
> My artists, [bafflinghaze](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/) and [nixhydr](https://nixhydr.tumblr.com/).  
> [Gracerene09](https://gracerene09.tumblr.com/) for alpha'ing and beta'ing this(and at the last moment too!!). You are a champion of the highest degree.  
> Thank you also to [Maesterchill](https://maesterchill.tumblr.com/) for giving this a look over, britpicking, and fixing all my aussie-isms.
> 
> Also thanks to: The Olive Support Group, for never tiring of my sobbing. The kids table club who helped me scream about this. My fellow HD Wireless mods, for picking up my slack and not telling me to shut up every time I brought this up. Thanks also to [zeitgeistic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic), even though they have no idea this exists, their fic Azoth first introduced me to Hermione and Millicent, and I fell in love from day one. I wouldn’t be here, having written this fic, if not for that fic.  
> To my Captains, oh Captains, it would not have been possible without you giving me wine and food, and listening to me, and reminding me that _I do this by choice_.
> 
> This is the longest thing I have ever written, and definitely the hardest. It wouldn't have been possible without every single one of you.
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you for reading.
> 
> Comments and Kudos give me life  
> Find me at tumblr at [candybarrnerd](http://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/)


End file.
